


don't call me kid, don't call me baby

by arysa13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst, Daddy Kink, Dry Humping, F/M, Fluff, Jealousy, Loss of Virginity, Pining, Pseudo-Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:48:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 28,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26044471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysa13/pseuds/arysa13
Summary: Bellamy has raised Clarke from when she was seven years old. But she’s not a little girl anymore.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 108
Kudos: 396





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loverosie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loverosie/gifts).



> bell, i really hope you like this and i hope you know how much i love you. thank you for terrorizing me into writing this fic.

Bellamy has been banished from his own living room. He’s leaning against the counter in his kitchen, his jaw set, as he listens to the laughter and girlish squeals floating in from the living room above the awful dance music that’s playing. He told Clarke she could have a party for her seventeenth birthday, as long as he was there, and as long as she didn’t invite too many people. Now, there are currently about thirty teenagers in his living room, probably breaking shit he can’t afford to fix, and slipping smuggled alcohol into the soda he’s provided.

His sister, Octavia, was the one to drag him into the kitchen, claiming Clarke was too polite to say, but he was bringing down the mood. It does sound like they’re having a lot more fun now that he’s not watching over them, with his arms folded threateningly and a sour expression on his face.

“Bellamy,” Octavia says. She sits on a stool across the counter from him, twirling a straw in her coke. “You’re going to have to accept one day that she’s growing up. You can’t treat her like a little girl forever.”

Bellamy’s jaw ticks. He’s all too aware that the girl he’s raised since she was seven years old is almost an adult. It doesn’t mean he has to like it.

“I know,” he growls.

He wishes he’d said no to the party. If it were up to him, they would have had a nice family dinner, just the three of them, and maybe Octavia’s boyfriend. He knows he has limited time left with Clarke before she goes off to college, and he wants to make the most of it. But he also knows he can’t try to control her, or stop her from seeing her friends, or she’ll resent him.

He thinks he’s done a pretty good job of raising her so far. She gets good grades, doesn’t get into fights at school the way he and Octavia had when they were teenagers. She’s smart and artistic, doesn’t flout his curfew or any other rules he sets in place. She doesn’t drink or smoke and she’s never brought a boyfriend home, much to his relief. This relatively tame party is the wildest he’s ever seen her get, and even then, it’s really her friends are the ones causing most of the commotion.

Clarke skips into the kitchen then, and Bellamy straightens, forever ready to wait on her every whim. He doesn’t approve of her outfit tonight either. The skimpy little crop top shows way too much skin, and he shouldn’t even be fucking noticing, but he thinks she might not be wearing a bra. He has a brief notion to turn the air-conditioner up to see if her nipples get hard, and then immediately wants to slap himself for the thought.

“Cheer up, grumpy,” she grins. “It’s my birthday, I want everyone to have a good time.”

“Your friends are making a mess, kid,” Bellamy sighs.

She screws her nose up. “We’re seventeen and it’s a party, what did you expect?”

Bellamy sighs again, loudly. “Did you want something?”

“I just came to see you,” she says. Warmth blooms in his chest, and he struggles to keep his stern expression. “When are you going to give me my present?”

A slight smirk makes its way onto his face. “Later,” he promises. “When your friends are gone.”

“Is it something embarrassing?”

“No,” he laughs. He just wants them to be alone when he gives it to her, so they can enjoy the moment properly. So his gift isn’t thrown to the side with all the other useless junk her friends have given her.

“Clarke!” a boy’s voice calls, and then a guy with floppy brown hair bounds into the kitchen. “What are you doing in here with the old people?”

Bellamy’s mood immediately sours again. He’s not _that_ much older than them. He’s only thirty-three, and Octavia is four years his junior.

“Shut up, Finn,” Clarke giggles, batting her eyelashes at this Finn character. Bellamy grits his teeth to keep from scowling. He clenches his fist, as if ready to beat a seventeen-year-old to a pulp if need be, if he so much as lays a finger on his little girl.

“Come on,” Finn coaxes. “You said you’d dance with me. And then Josie wants to play spin the bottle.”

“No,” Bellamy and Clarke say in unison. She glances at him, blushing.

“What, is it too awkward to play with your dad around?” Finn asks. Clarke blushes even harder, and Bellamy’s gut clenches. The words _I’m not her dad_ dance on the end of his tongue. A mantra he repeats to himself all too often lately.

“How about we keep the kissing games for another time?” Octavia suggests. “I don’t think it’s appropriate.” Ah, how much she’s matured. As if she wasn’t doing far worse at seventeen.

“Good idea,” Clarke agrees quickly.

Finn grabs her hand, and she looks back over her shoulder at Bellamy as Finn drags her back to the living room, Bellamy glaring at him the whole time.

“You know, some might say you’re a little _too_ protective of her,” Octavia muses. “She’s going to want to date one day. Do you really want her keeping it a secret from you because she’s afraid you’re going to scare off anyone who shows an interest?”

That’s not what he wants at all. He’s kind of hoping she never wants to date. He’s pretty sure no one is good enough for her.

“Shut up,” he mutters.

“And you know, _you_ might even give dating a try. I understood it when she was younger, but I don’t see how it could hurt now. Don’t you get lonely?”

Bellamy baulks at the idea of dating. It used to be, before Clarke, he dated all the time, found it fun. Now the thought of meeting someone new, getting to know them, bringing them home—he can’t stomach it. And how could he be lonely when he has Clarke?

“Have you even gotten laid in the last ten years?” Octavia snorts.

Bellamy glares at her. He _has_ gotten laid, albeit sporadically, and never with the same woman twice. The last time was probably almost two years ago now. No wonder he’s always so sexually frustrated. Still, it’s none of Octavia’s business.

“I said, shut up,” he snaps, then stalks out of the kitchen towards his bedroom.

-

Clarke Griffin was seven when she entered the foster system. Her dad died a year earlier, and her mother was so spaced out on pills she’d forgotten she even had a daughter.

Bellamy had been out of college for a year, working as a social worker, and was assigned to Clarke’s case. She’d taken to him right away. He had a natural gift for caring for children, and he took her trust in him very seriously, especially since she didn’t seem to really trust anyone else.

She had been scared of her mom, but she still cried for her dad. Her first foster carers found her rebellious and angry. She wouldn’t sleep, wouldn’t eat, refused to go to school. As far as Bellamy could tell, there was nothing wrong with the couple who’d taken her in, and they seemed like they were trying their best to care for Clarke. They said she screamed that she wanted her dad frequently, and when they gently reminded her what had happened to her father, she asked for Bellamy instead.

She was never like that with him. With him, she was the picture of innocence, wide blue eyes and blonde curls, though her smile was always a little cheeky.

But her second foster home was the same, and to see her distraught made Bellamy distraught. He didn’t like the thought of leaving her with someone else. He’d grown attached to her. His heart ached when he thought of her sobbing by herself, crying for her dad, or for him. So when, after a month, the second carer didn’t work out either, he took her in himself.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was certain he’d have to let her go at some point. She had no other family, but her mother was working to get clean. But then, a year later, Abby Griffin died of an overdose. And there was no fucking way Bellamy was giving Clarke up to someone else. He loved her like she was his own daughter, and the thought of someone taking her away from him was unthinkable.

Her case was given to someone else, someone who checked in on them every now and then. But eventually Bellamy was considered capable enough of caring for her, and they were left alone. Just the way he still likes it to this day.

It’s after midnight when the last of Clarke’s friends are finally gone. He’d reappeared in the living room an hour ago, making his presence known until the teenagers finally got the hint and called their parents or whoever to come and get them. Octavia had even given a few of them a ride home on her way.

Now, Bellamy sits with Clarke on the sofa, her feet curled up under her as he hands her the small box, painstakingly wrapped in pink paper. She’s in her pyjamas now, which is somehow worse than the outfit she was wearing earlier, because it’s just these tiny cotton shorts and singlet top, and she looks all soft and innocent. He wants to pull her onto his lap and tease her little cunt through those indecent shorts.

His cock stirs. He grits his teeth and pushes the thought away.

Clarke takes the gift from him, and he watches her carefully as she unwraps it, then opens the box. Her eyes light up as she lifts the charm bracelet out of the box. It only has one charm on it so far, a little crown, with the word _princess_ engraved on it.

“Oh, Bellamy,” Clarke beams. “It’s so pretty.”

She always calls him Bellamy now. She’d tried out _dad_ and _daddy_ when she was younger, but she eventually just settled on calling him by his name. He thinks perhaps she liked the way it made her sound grown up, to call adults by their first names. 

“You like it?” he smiles.

Clarke nods, and holds out her wrist. “Put it on me,” she says, handing over the bracelet. Bellamy clasps the bracelet into place around her wrist.

“There,” he says. “My little princess.”

The nickname originated in the early days of her living with him. She loved the colour pink, and she loved anything to do with princesses. That, plus the fact that he’d do anything for her, earned her the nickname.

She used to have bad nightmares as a child, about the car accident she’d been in that killed her father. About her drug addled mother neglecting her and abusing her. The kids at school bullied her for anything they could think of—because she accidentally called the teacher mom, because she liked the colour pink too much, because she went to a sleepover and wet the bed.

Bellamy was always there to console her. Once, when the nightmares and the bullying were really bad, he got the idea to build her a blanket fort. Only, he called it a blanket palace, and he bought her a tiara covered in diamantes and declared her princess of the kingdom.

“ _Brave princess_ ,” he called her. “ _Nothing can hurt you in your palace._ ”

It became a tradition—whenever she was particularly sad or scared, they’d build the blanket palace together, and then he’d crawl in there with her, and he’d read to her, or play dolls or tea parties with her, or sometimes just hold her.

They haven’t done any of that in years now. She used to be so affectionate with him too, she was such a tactile child. But she rarely touches him now. Sometimes Bellamy misses it. Sometimes he’s glad of it.

Clarke admires the bracelet, and the charm dangling from it. “Thank you,” she says. She lurches towards him and throws her arms around him, pulling him into a tight hug. Her soft breasts crush against his chest. Definitely not wearing a bra. His traitorous cock twitches.

He pulls away hurriedly, before his thoughts can descend any further into dangerous territory.

He gets up off the couch, ruffling her hair. “I’m off to bed. Happy birthday, kid. Goodnight.”

-

It’s not the first time he’s had these kind of wayward thoughts about Clarke. He didn’t notice, at first, what a beautiful young woman she was growing into. Not until she was fifteen, and she awkwardly asked him if she could go bra shopping, blushing the whole time. And his eyes flicked down to her chest, and he realised he’d been letting her go without one for far too long.

He should’ve let Octavia take her, but Octavia was busy, and Clarke wanted to do it right away. She wouldn’t say, but he got the feeling she’d been teased about her already large breasts. He hadn’t noticed before, the way they jiggled under her loose-fitting t-shirts, but the kids at school must have. It was all he could think about as they walked into the lingerie shop.

Bellamy had hung back as a sales assistant helped Clarke, but he felt his ears go red as they picked out lacy bras in different styles and colours. Couldn’t she just pick one of those unsexy beige contraptions? When the sales assistant started picking out matching underwear, he had to intervene.

“ _She’s fifteen, for fuck’s sake,_ ” he had scolded, tearing the collection from the assistant’s hands. “ _She shouldn’t be wearing this kind of thing._ ”

The sales assistant had stammered apologies, claiming she’d thought Clarke was older—that he and Clarke were a _couple_. Clarke had blushed deep scarlet, and Bellamy hadn’t been much better.

In the end, they’d left with the plainest, most practical bras, and never spoken of the humiliating encounter again.

Still, the knowledge was there now. That she wasn’t exactly a little girl anymore, that she was blossoming into an attractive young woman. Wicked thoughts would seep into his brain if he didn’t keep his guard up—at first it wasn’t too hard.

But as she grew older, the thoughts became more frequent, sicker, harder to banish. Thoughts of her writhing beneath him, naked. Thoughts of his cock sliding inside her, her tits bouncing as he thrusts into her.

He has similar thoughts now, lying in bed, listening for her footsteps down the hall as she goes to bed herself. What if she opened his door instead? What if she crawled into bed with him like she used to do when she was a child? But this time she wraps her mouth around his cock and he spills his seed into her perfect, warm mouth.

He groans. It’s sick, he knows it’s sick. She’s practically his daughter. It doesn’t matter that they aren’t biologically related, or that he never officially adopted her. He’s the only family she’s got, and he can’t ruin that by entertaining these disgusting, awful thoughts. What would she think if she found out? She’d never trust him again. Maybe she’d never trust _anyone_ again.

He doesn’t want to have these thoughts. He’d do anything to go back to thinking of her as a child again. But every time he looks at her, all he can see is how beautiful she’s become, how fucking sexy her body is. His stupid brain can’t seem to accept the fact that she’s as good as his daughter, that’s she fucking seventeen, that he’s sixteen years older than her, that he’s known her since she was _seven_.

He refuses to masturbate. He’s not going to get himself off thinking about her, he can at least congratulate himself for that. He just lies there, willing his aching cock to go down. He eventually manages to think of something else long enough for his cock to stop throbbing and to drift off to sleep.

-

He surprises her with a treat the next morning, to make up for running of so hastily last night. She usually gets up before him, coffee made just the way he likes it sitting on the counter when he drags himself out of bed.

She’s always been an early riser, and in the early days of living with him, she’d get up and tidy the place, watched him intently for a week to learn how he made his coffee, then had it waiting for him every morning after that.

He assured her she didn’t need to do any cleaning, and she definitely didn’t need to make him coffee—he didn’t really think it was appropriate for an almost eight-year-old to be making coffee anyway.

But she kept doing it, no many how many times he told her she was allowed to sleep in, or play in her room until he got up to get her ready for school.

It took a month for her to tearfully confess to him that her mom would get mad if she got up and the house wasn’t clean, and that she’d be even worse if she didn’t have coffee, and she was afraid if she didn’t do the same for Bellamy he’d give her up.

The second he heard that he burst into tears himself. He held her tight and promised her nothing would make him give her up, nothing she could do to make him not want her. She seemed to believe him, and gave up the cleaning, and took to either drawing in her room or simply getting into bed with him until it was time to get ready for school.

She stopped making coffee too, for a while, but after a year, she started again. Said she liked making it, that it made her feel grown up, even though he wouldn’t let her drink it herself.

Bellamy let her keep doing it, because he saw it for what it really was—something that used to be a habit of fear turned into a gesture of love.

Clarke walks into the kitchen now, hair in a messy bun, still looking tired from her big night. She’s got on a pink robe with the word _princess_ embroidered on the pocket, and he can see the charm from the bracelet he gave her last night dangling from her wrist.

“Morning, princess,” he grins. “I made your favourite.” He gestures to the freshly iced red velvet cupcakes on the counter.

“For breakfast?” she asks, as if she can’t quite believe the man who won’t let her put sugar on her cornflakes is letting her have cake for breakfast. (Not that she ever listened to the no sugar rule anyway, and he never had the heart to scold her too harshly for it.)

He shrugs. “You deserve a treat.”

“My birthday was yesterday,” she points out, even as she reaches for a cupcake. She bites into it, and Bellamy busies himself with cleaning the icing he spilled on the counter. He can’t even watch her fucking eat without getting turned on.

When he looks up again, she’s got cream cheese icing stuck to her lip. He wants to kiss it off. Instead, he reaches over and brushes it off with his thumb, tracing over the sexy little beauty mark above her lip. Clarke stares at him with those wide blue eyes, like she’s not quite sure what’s happening.

“You’ve got icing on your lip, kid,” he explains, trying not to think about how soft her lips are. How he wants to run his tongue over her beauty mark. How he wants to push his fingers into her mouth. How he wants to push his cock into her mouth. Fucking hell, he needs to get a handle on himself.

Clarke ducks her head, blushing as she wipes her mouth. Bellamy raises an eyebrow. Is she really embarrassed about getting icing on her face? He’s seen her through much worse. Vomit, blood, tears. And she’s blushing over a little icing?

“What are you plans for today?” he asks, dropping his hand.

“I thought we could hang out,” Clarke says. “Since we didn’t really get to yesterday.”

Bellamy is pleased. He likes that she still wants to spend time with him, even though her popularity seems to have skyrocketed in the last year, and she could be hanging out with any of her millions of friends.

“Yeah?” he says. “You’re not embarrassed to be seen with me now that you’re seventeen? Not too cool to hang out with your dad?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she’s blushing again. She seems to do that a lot more lately. Bellamy loves the way her face gets all red when she’s embarrassed.

“You’re not my dad,” she huffs.

No, he’s not. “I’m the closest thing you’ve got.” It’s a reminder to himself as well as to her.

She bites her lip, then dips her finger into the icing on her cupcake and scoops it into her mouth, sucking on her finger. Bellamy almost groans out loud.

“Seriously,” he says. “You don’t want to hang out with your friends?”

Clarke shrugs. “They don’t get me like you do.”

Bellamy smiles, pleased. “Should we ride our bikes around the lake?”

Clarke nods, then skips back to her room to get dressed. She comes back down twenty minutes later in a crop top and the tiniest pair of denim shorts he’s seen in his life. He feels like a pervert for even looking at her. And yet, he feels like he can’t say anything, because that would mean he _noticed_ , and the last thing he wants is for her to feel uncomfortable around him.

He lets her lead the way to the garage, where their bikes are, and he wants to die when he realises he can see the bottom of her ass cheeks poking out from her shorts. He imagines getting his hands on those ass cheeks, rubbing his cock against her crack, coming all over her back. It’s getting more difficult to hide his growing hard on.

It’s a short drive to the lake, with the bikes strapped to the bike rack on Bellamy’s four-wheel-drive. He gets them down, Clarke’s pink one first, and then his black one. She seems reluctant to put her helmet on, for fear it will mess up her hair, but he makes her put it on anyway. He’s not letting her get a brain injury over vanity.

As they’re riding, he can put thoughts of his attraction to her from his mind. She’s a kid again, racing him around the next bend, fresh spring air in his lungs. He loves the sound of her laughter, wants nothing more than for her to be happy always.

They stop at a picnic table for a water break, and Clarke perches herself on top of it, taking off her helmet and shaking out her blonde hair.

“We should watch a movie tonight,” she says.

“Twilight?” he guesses.

Clarke pokes her tongue out. “Maybe one day I’ll surprise you and want to watch something different.”

“But tonight?”

“Twilight,” she agrees. She tilts her head back, eyes closing, soaking up the sun. Bellamy allows himself a moment of weakness, and his eyes rove over her body, admiring the large expanses of white skin on display. Her long, toned legs, her soft tummy, her round breasts, rising and falling heavily from the exertion of the ride.

He flicks his eyes back to her face, and his gut drops when he sees her watching him. She flushes, and he knows he’s been caught out. The thought makes him sick.

“Zoned out there for a moment,” he chuckles casually, though his heart is pounding. “Should we keep going?”

Clarke nods, and Bellamy feels a lot less carefree on the way back to the car.

-

Bellamy cooks the popcorn while Clarke gets the movie ready on the TV. It used to be she’d sit on his lap while they watched movies together, and then when she was too old for that, snuggled up against his side. Now he keeps the bowl of popcorn between them, but he wishes she would sit on his lap again.

Clarke hits the play button, and New Moon starts playing. They’d watched Twilight a couple of weeks ago, and are cycling their way through the movies again. Bellamy has no idea how Clarke isn’t sick of this series by now—they must have watched it twenty times, and honestly it wasn’t that great the first time. But Clarke loves them, so he watches them, and he must admit it does have a certain fondness for them, if only because Clarke loves them so much.

The movies ends, Clarke having eaten most of the popcorn, with Bellamy only eating a couple of handfuls.

“Eclipse next weekend?” Clarke suggests.

Bellamy smiles. “Sure.”

“Oh, wait—” Clarke says, as if she’s just remembered something. “Actually, I kind of wanted to talk to you about something. About next weekend.”

“What’s that?” Bellamy asks, Clarke’s nervousness making him uneasy.

“So, you know Finn Collins, who you met last night?”

Bellamy immediately tenses at the mention of Finn’s name. “Yes,” he says carefully. “What about him?”

“He kind of asked me on a date.”

“No,” Bellamy says, the visceral feeling in his chest taking over. Clarke looks surprised at his vehement reaction, and he feels guilty for a moment. But he’s not changing his mind.

“No?”

“No dating until you’re eighteen,” he tells her. It’s a rule he’s just made up, and he’ll probably regret it when she turns eighteen, but he figures at least he can put off the inevitable for another year.

“What?” Clarke pouts. “Why?”

Bellamy hesitates. He has to have reasons? Isn’t enough that he doesn’t want her to? And how the fuck does he explain to her why he doesn’t want her to date, when he can barely explain it to himself?

“You’re too young, kid,” he says, trying to keep it light. Using the nickname he calls her to remind himself what she really is, what she can only ever be to him.

“Don’t call me that,” Clarke snaps, causing Bellamy to flinch. “I’m not a kid. I’m seventeen, you should treat me like an adult.”

Bellamy swallows, trying to maintain his composure, to remain the calm, responsible person in this argument. “You’re still just a kid to me,” he lies. “You’ll always be my kid.”

“Perhaps I should start calling you daddy then,” Clarke says, icy. Bellamy’s cock jumps, and his eyes flash. Does she know what that word means? She must, she’s not that naïve. But she can’t know what it does to him—she’s just being a brat, that’s all. Not purposefully trying to tease him, to turn him on.

“You can call me whatever you like,” Bellamy says, trusting she won’t take him up on that offer. She has to know what it would sound like if she started calling him _daddy_ for fucks sake. He doesn’t know if he’d survive that. “You’re still not allowed to date.”

“Plenty of other girls my age are dating,” Clarke huffs.

“Plenty of other girls your age are pregnant, too.”

Clarke’s face goes a deep scarlet. “It’s just one date, you can’t get pregnant from one date.”

“Boys will take advantage of you. I don’t trust this Finn character.”

“So you don’t trust my judgement?” Clarke snaps.

“You’re only seventeen,” Bellamy growls. “You don’t know anything about what men can be like. What goes through Finn’s mind when he looks at you.”

“Maybe I know exactly what goes through his mind, and maybe that’s exactly what I want. I don’t want to be a virgin forever.”

She shocks him with that one, and he feels his face turning red. Still, he doesn’t flinch. “My word is final,” he growls. “No boys, no dating. Not while you’re under my roof.”

_You’re mine,_ he wants to scream. _Nobody else can have you_.

Clarke gives him a scathing glare. “I’m not a baby,” she says, standing up. “You can’t keep treating me like one forever.”

She stalks from the room then, and Bellamy groans, massaging his temples. He feels a little guilty. He knows it’s only natural for her to want to start dating, for her to be curious about boys and sex at seventeen.

But the thought of anyone touching her makes his blood boil. Some stupid high school boy won’t know how to treat her right. He wants to protect her, and take care of her forever. He doesn’t want some other man to do it for him. Yet deep down he knows she won’t be his forever, one day, probably soon, she’s going to go off to college, meet somebody, follow her dreams, settle down—have her own life that doesn’t revolve around him.

It’s how it should be, he knows that. But still it leaves him feeling achingly hollow.

-

He can’t sleep that night, thinking about his argument with Clarke, so he ends up getting up and cleaning out his closet, a job he’s been meaning to do for months.

He hates when they fight. It happens so rarely, they’re usually always on the same page. He can’t remember the last time she was angry with him, or vice versa.

He feels guilty for enforcing the no dating rule, but at the same time, he can’t bring himself to take it back. He’s convinced himself it’s the right decision, especially if the person she wants to date is Finn. Bellamy can just tell he’s just another fuckboy, ready to take his baby girl’s innocence and break her heart. Bellamy is not going to have that on his conscience. He’s sure Clarke will understand one day.

Eventually he tires himself out, and he puts the bag of old shirts and underwear in the hall outside Clarke’s room, in case she has any clothes she wants to get rid of. He crawls back into bed, and he still feels wretched, but he must fall asleep eventually, because the next thing he knows he’s waking to the sound of birdsong, sunlight creeping through the cracks in the blinds.

His stomach drops when he remembers his fight with Clarke. What if she’s so mad at him she decides she doesn’t want to live with him anymore? What if she’s finally entering her rebellious phase, and he goes downstairs to find a note telling him she’s run off with Finn?

He pushes the covers aside and races downstairs to confront his worst fears. Instead all he finds is a cup of coffee on the counter, still steaming, and a piece of toast cut into a heart shape.

His shoulders sag in relief, and tears spring to his eyes, heart full of love. He quickly wipes his eyes when he hears her enter the kitchen behind him.

“Are you getting rid of those clothes?” she asks as he turns to her.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “Most of them aren’t nice enough to donate, I’ll probably just throw them away. If you have anything you want to get rid of you can add them.”

“Okay, thanks,” Clarke says. “I’m going to finish my homework then go over to Wells’, is that okay?”

“Of course, princess,” Bellamy says. He doesn’t worry about Wells trying to make a move on Clarke—he knows the kid has been in love with her for years, but Clarke only sees him as a friend. Bellamy feels for him, but he’s also happy he doesn’t have to keep an eye on them.

“Thanks,” she says, before turning to leave.

“Love you, kid,” he calls after her, just to make sure she knows.

“Love you too, daddy,” she calls back. Bellamy chokes on his coffee.

-

Clarke seems to have forgiven him completely for the no dating rule after that. She acts like the argument never happened, and he’s happy to forget the issue entirely. He just wishes he could forget the way she called him _daddy_. As if his thoughts weren’t inappropriate enough.

He makes her a snack of pizza rolls on Monday when he gets home from work just before six, even though he’ll start cooking dinner soon and she’ll probably spoil her appetite, but she asked for them, and spoiling her is his favourite thing to do.

He tries to help her with her homework, but truthfully most of it is beyond him by now. She’s so much smarter than he is with science and maths and English and art—he can usually help her with history and Spanish, but that’s about the scope of his expertise. He’s so fucking proud of her intellect and her work ethic.

After dinner, he cleans up while she goes to her room to get ready for bed before they settle onto the couch to watch Grey’s Anatomy.

His heart stutters when she walks back into the room. She’s not wearing her usual tank top and pyjama shorts combination, instead she’s dressed in a worn, navy-coloured t-shirt that barely reaches the tops of her thighs, and nothing else.

“Is that mine?” Bellamy chokes out, his voice thick.

Clarke looks down. The shirt hugs her breasts, makes her legs look miles long. She looks so fucking sexy dressed in his clothes, a neon sign telling him she belongs to him. The princess bracelet on her wrist doesn’t hurt either.

“Yes,” she says. “I took some of the stuff you were getting rid of, I hope that’s okay. It’s comfy.”

“Yeah,” he says faintly. He must have done something truly horrible in a past life to have deserved a torture this excruciatingly painful. If it’s a test of his self-control, he thinks he’s doing a fucking fantastic job, if he doesn’t count the fact that he’s thinking about pushing that shirt up to her waist and licking her pussy until she comes all over his face.

“Does it look okay?” Clarke asks, tugging at the hem.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. “Yes. You look cute, kid.”

“Thanks, daddy,” she smiles.

Bellamy’s face contorts like he’s in pain. He tries to control the throbbing in his cock, but it has a mind of its own, and its standing at full attention now. Clarke, looking all sweet and innocent in his shirt, yet devastatingly sexy at the same time, calling him daddy. Her blonde braids hanging over her shoulders, her wide blue eyes, tell him she’s seventeen, far too young, far too pure for him to be having these thoughts. The way she bites her lip, juts her tits out, calls him _daddy_ like she has no idea what it means _—_ scream the opposite.

“Are you okay?” she asks, sitting on the couch next to him.

“You shouldn’t call me that,” he mutters, hand on his crotch, trying to conceal his erection.

“What? Daddy?”

“Yes.”

“Why not?”

He shoots her a look. He can’t bring himself to explain it out loud. What if she really doesn’t know?

He swallows. “I’m not your dad.”

“And I’m not your kid,” Clarke agrees.

Bellamy squeezes his eyes shut. “Let’s just watch the show.”

-

As if the universe is conspiring against him, Clarke decides she likes wearing his shirts so much, it’s basically all she wears when she’s at home. Maybe it should feel like a blessing that her cleavage isn’t on display so much anymore, but he feels like this is worse. Every time she bends down, or reaches for something, or fucking sits with her legs crossed, he’s treated with a tantalizing glimpse of her panties, begging to be pulled off so her pussy can be stuffed with his cock.

He wants to bend her over the kitchen counter and take her from behind, wants her bouncing on his cock in his lap, wants his face buried in her cunt while she sucks him off—all the while wearing nothing but his t-shirt. He can’t stop thinking about it, and it’s sick.

His cock aches, his balls feel like they’re going to explode, but he doesn’t masturbate. He can’t. Not when he’d be thinking of her the whole time.

He hates himself. He wants to gouge his eyes out so he can’t look at her that way. Imagine if she knew what he was thinking. That the one man she trusts more than anyone to care for her and look out for her is thinking such dark, nasty thoughts about her. She should be able to walk around the house in whatever she pleases, without some dirty old man sexualising her every move. He’s despicable.

To make matters worse, every time he calls her kid, she responds with that word, the one that makes cock hard and his gut clench.

_Do you want dessert, kid?_

_Yes please, daddy._

_Don’t forget to put your laundry away, kid._

_I won’t, daddy._

_Love you, kid._

_Love you too, daddy._

It should make him stop calling her kid, but he thinks it just makes him say it more. So he’ll get to hear her call him daddy, so sweetly, yet so seductively. He thinks about how it would sound while she moaned it with his cock in her sweet, wet cunt.

Despite her assurance she would remember to put her laundry away, she leaves it folded in a pile in the living room for three days, until Bellamy finally resigns himself to putting it away himself, while she’s at Wells’ after school on Friday night.

He doesn’t go in her room often, not because he’s not welcome there, but he likes her to know that she has her own space without him intruding if she needs it.

He hangs her clean dresses in the closet, and those stupid crop tops she’s so keen on wearing, leaving her underwear for last. He’s not dwelling on the fact that he’s touching her underwear, that would be fucked up.

He opens the top drawer of her dresser, and before he can shove her panties into it, he notices a small silver pill packet, marked with the days of the week. His gut drops. She’s taking the pill. And she’s hiding it from him. Probably got Octavia to take her to get it, and Bellamy feels a surge of annoyance at his sister for not telling him.

He tries not to jump to conclusions. There are other reasons for taking the pill other than as a contraceptive. But then he notices what’s underneath it, and he wants to throw up. Gingerly, he extracts the bra, if it can even be called that, from the drawer. Totally sheer, other than the white straps holding it together, and a pink floral pattern embroidered on it, that he’s not sure would cover anything. He’s not sure how this tiny thing would hold her massive tits. And with it, matching panties that are basically just a string and a see-through triangle with some flowers on it.

There’s no denying why she would have a lingerie set like this. That, combined with the fact that she’s obviously been taking the pill for at least a couple of weeks now, tells him one thing. She’s ready.

His little girl is ready to have her pussy filled with cock, like a plump little cherry hanging from a tree, ripe and ready for picking. He wonders if she masturbates, if she’s put this little number on and pranced around in front of her mirror, then fingered herself to orgasm. He wants to know what dirty little thoughts she has hiding behind those innocent blue eyes.

He’s hard at the thought, feels hot all over. But a moment later, he realises who she must want to give her virginity to. That fucking Finn Collins, whose very name makes Bellamy’s blood boil. Who she wanted to go on a date with tomorrow night. He’d thought that comment about not wanting to be a virgin forever was just to rile him up, he didn’t realise how serious she was.

The thought of his princess being spoiled by somebody else fills him with a white hot rage like nothing else he’s never felt.

He hears the front door close, and he knows she’s home. He considers for a moment shoving the lingerie back into the drawer and pretending he never saw it. But he’s too angry.

“Bellamy?” Clarke calls.

“I’m in your room,” he yells back. If he doesn’t confront her about it, she’ll think it’s okay, that he’s totally fine with her losing her virginity at seventeen to some fuckboy who doesn’t give a fuck about her beyond the fact that she’s a hole to put his cock in.

Clarke appears in the doorway, looking confused. Her eyes widen almost comically when she sees the bra and panties in his hands, her face going redder than he’s ever seen it.

“What is this, Clarke?” he growls.

“Underwear,” Clarke says. She’s obviously trying to seem nonchalant, but she sounds timid and nervous, and she won’t meet his eye.

“Underwear,” Bellamy repeats. “Clarke, this is so inappropriate. It covers absolutely nothing.”

“Why do you care so much about my underwear?” Clarke huffs.

_Don’t answer that_ , he tells himself. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I know you don’t buy underwear like this because it’s comfortable. You bought it because you want to show it to your boyfriend Finn.”

“He’s not my boyfriend.”

“That’s even worse,” Bellamy says angrily. “You really want to give up your virginity to some high school boy who cares more about his hair than he does about you? That idiot is not good enough for you Clarke, and if I have to forbid you from seeing him, if I have to keep you home every night until graduation to make sure he doesn’t touch you, I will.”

“Oh my god, I don’t give a fuck about Finn,” Clarke groans. “I don’t want to have sex with Finn, I didn’t buy those for Finn.”

Bellamy stops, breathing heavy due to his rant. He licks his lips, trying to run through every potential boy Clarke knows that she might want to lose her virginity to. “Not Wells?” he asks. Had he read that situation so wrong?

“No,” Clarke whispers. “It’s no one from school.”

Bellamy’s stomach lurches. If the thought of her having sex with one of her classmates was bad, the thought of someone older preying on her is so much worse.

“I swear to god, Clarke, you better tell me who the fuck this man is, so I can have him fucking thrown in prison.”

Tears form in her eyes, and guilt tugs at him, but he has to know. He can’t let anybody touch his baby girl.

“It’s for you, okay?” Clarke whispers. “I bought it for you.”

Bellamy stares at her, breath knocked out of him. God. Fuck. _Fuck_. Surely he heard wrong. Surely he didn’t just hear her say that she bought some fucking sheer lingerie to wear for _him_ , the man who raised her.

It should sicken him, but it doesn’t. It thrills him. Knowing she’s his, if he wants her. But he can’t want her.

“Clarke—” he chokes out. He has no idea how to respond to this. How to tell her how wrong it is without hurting her. How to stop his heart and cock from rejoicing at her confession. How to be the responsible adult here when his baby girl as good as told him she wants him to take her virginity.

“I’m your father,” he reminds her gently, and reminds himself.

“No you aren’t,” she says vehemently. “You may have raised me, but we’re not blood related. You didn’t even adopt me.”

“Clarke—”

“I see the way you look at me sometimes,” she says. “I know you think about it too.”

“No, Clarke,” he denies. “Even if I’m not really your dad—it’s still wrong. Even if I did _sometimes_ think about—about what you’re accusing me of. I’m way too old for you. You’re seventeen for fuck’s sake. And we’re still family. We can’t think about each other that way,” he says, even as he’s picturing her in this scrap of fabric, sucking his cock.

Tears spill down her cheeks, but she nods, like she knew that’s what he would say. “I’m sorry,” she sobs.

Bellamy feels awful. But what was he supposed to say? _I think about fucking you all the time? I want my cock in your virgin pussy so bad it consumes me? I want you naked, tied up, tits in my mouth, cunt dripping? I want my come in every single one of your tight little holes, and I want you to beg for more?_

He pulls her into a hug, and she’s still crying. He hopes she can’t feel his erection pressing into her stomach.

“Hey, it’s okay,” he coos. “It’s okay, princess.”

“Do you think I’m fucked up?”

“No, no, of course not, sweetheart. It’s just a little crush, you’ll get over it. Promise. I bet all your friends have a crush on me too.”

Clarke gives a watery laugh at that. “They do,” she agrees. “They always say _your dad is such a daddy._ It makes me so mad.”

“Oh yeah? Why’s it make you so mad?”

She pulls her head back to look at him “Because you’re mine,” she tells him earnestly. Bellamy’s heart skips a beat.

“Is that right?” he says, swallowing thickly.

Clarke nods. “You always put me first. You never date. You spend all your time with me. You don’t care about anyone else except Octavia. So you’re mine. And you don’t need to worry about Finn, or Wells, or anyone else, because I’m yours too. Even if you don’t think of me the way I think of you.”

Bellamy can’t help but realise how right she is. And how if he’s ever going to gain some semblance of sanity, he might just need to change that.

-

Bellamy gets Octavia to set him up. She’s so excited about it too, like she’s been waiting _years_ for him to ask.

The woman’s name is Roma, she’s twenty-seven, and she’s in Octavia’s kickboxing class. She’s not into the outdoors, she’s a hairdresser, and her hobbies are shopping and Instagram. She really doesn’t sound like his type, but at this point, anyone will do. Anyone who isn’t Clarke.

He meets Roma at a bar for a drink, something casual that doesn’t have too much riding on it. She’s pretty. A brunette, with a good body and a nice smile. She’s not as vapid as he thought she would be, and he enjoys himself.

He doesn’t take her home, because it would be weird with Clarke there, and besides, he didn’t tell Clarke he was on a date. She thinks he’s out with his only friend, Miller.

Roma invites him back to her place, and he almost says yes. But for some reason, he can’t go through with it. He’s horny, yes, and he wants to have sex. But not tonight. Not with her. His heart isn’t in it.

Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that he can’t get the image of Clarke wearing that little lingerie set for him out of his head.

But he sets up another date with Roma, because he does like her, and he thinks with a bit of time he will want to sleep with her.

He checks in on Clarke when he gets home, just to make sure she’s okay. He thinks she’s asleep, but then he hears her voice murmur in the darkness.

“Did you have a good time with Miller?”

“Yes,” Bellamy replies, feeling guilty. He never usually lies to her.

“That’s good.”

Bellamy smiles. “Goodnight, princess.”

“Goodnight, daddy,” she whispers sleepily.

-

Bellamy sees Roma a couple more times, still keeping it a secret from Clarke. He still hasn’t had sex with her, and he knows Roma is wondering why. _Next time_ , he keeps telling himself.

Truth is, while he has a nice time with Roma, it’s not like being with Clarke. Roma is nice, sure, and fun. But she doesn’t brighten his whole day like Clarke does. Doesn’t make his heart swell, doesn’t make the world seem just a little bit better simply by existing in it. Doesn’t get him like Clarke does. And she sure as hell doesn’t turn him on like Clarke does.

He was supposed to have his fourth date with her tonight, a month after the first. The previous two were lunch dates on weekdays, so he wouldn’t have to make up an excuse to tell Clarke.

He cancelled tonight though, because Clarke wants to watch Breaking Dawn Part 2. He told Roma he wasn’t feeling well.

He forgets to put the popcorn on the couch between him and Clarke, and halfway through the movie he finds her curled up to his side, his old button-down she’s wearing bunched up to reveal her pale pink panties. She hasn’t done the buttons all the way up either, and he can see a tantalising glimpse of her cleavage every time he looks in her direction. His cock stirs. He feels like he should push her away, but it’s been so long since they’ve been close like this that he can’t bring himself to. He wraps his arm around her instead, and he hears her sigh in contentment.

“I’ve missed this,” Clarke murmurs. “Being close to you.”

“We’re always close.”

“You know what I mean. You never hold me anymore. You barely touch me.”

Bellamy swallows. “What are you talking about? You’re the one who stopped.” He glances at her, to see her shaking her head.

“You stopped first,” she says. “You put up this invisible barrier between us as soon as you realised I wasn’t a little girl anymore. Like you were afraid people would think our relationship was creepy.”

Bellamy stews in this for a moment. Is she right? Is he the one who inadvertently denied her tactile nature? It wouldn’t be a stretch. He’d realised she was attractive when she was fifteen, and it was around the same time when she stopped being so affectionate with him. Perhaps he did push her away, without meaning to.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I didn’t realise. I thought you outgrew that kind of thing. Lots of girls do around that age.”

“Never.”

He gives her shoulders a squeeze, and she hums happily. What he wouldn’t give for her to always be this happy.

“Wait, I missed too much of the movie,” Clarke says. “We have to rewind.”

“You’ve seen this movie a hundred times,” Bellamy points out, pulling the remote out of her reach so she can’t rewind. It’s not like they won’t be watching it again in a few months time anyway. And he so hasn’t been paying attention to the movie anyway, not with Clarke pressed up against him like she is.

“Come on,” Clarke pouts, reaching over him to grasp at the remote. “It’s just a few minutes.”

“The longer you spend trying to get the remote, the more you’ll miss,” Bellamy says, as Clarke battles him for control. He waves the remote around as she gets up on her knees, trying to grab it from him.

He shoots his arm up over his head, and Clarke crawls onto his lap, laughing as she tries to get the remote from him. She grabs his wrist and he grabs her waist, tugging her down. Her breasts squash against his chest, and she squirms in his arm, straddling his lap now. She makes another grab for the remote, and her soft body wriggling against his has his cock standing to attention, a large tent forming in his sweatpants. He panics, stomach churning, and he wills his cock to go soft before she notices what she’s done to him.

Clarke huffs, slumping back down. A jolt goes through him as her panty-covered cunt makes direct contact with his erection. He grunts, and she lets out a squeak. Fuck. She felt it. He drops his arm and the remote, but he doesn’t move her, and she doesn’t move herself.

“Oh my god,” she whispers. “Is that—"

“Shit,” he swears. She’s pressed right against him, right there, right where he wants to touch her the most. Right where he can never touch her. “Fuck, Clarke.” He swears he can feel her heat, pulsing for him. His cock aches. “You’re missing the movie.”

“I’ve seen it a hundred times,” she reminds him. She bites her lip, then moves her hips, ever so slightly—just testing.

“Clarke,” he says, strangled, pleading. Pleading for her to stop, or keep going, he doesn’t know. His heart is racing. “We shouldn’t be touching like this,” he whispers. “You shouldn’t—” he stops. He’s not going to say the word cock in front of her. Or the words _dry hump_.

“Shouldn’t what?”

Another small rock of her hips, her pussy dragging against his cock, giving him a taste of the friction he so desperately needs.

“You know exactly what,” he says, his voice ragged. “It’s wrong.”

Fuck, he wants to kiss her. Wants to grind up against her, flip her over so she’s underneath him, then pull off those panties and fuck her deep. He closes his eyes, trying to find the strength to stop this.

His responsible, sensible side tells him to just pick her up and move her. It’s gone too far already. But for once, that side of him isn’t winning the battle. She rubs against him, a small whimper escaping her mouth.

“Bellamy,” she whines, still rubbing her cunt against his bulge. His breathing is shallow, and he feels like he’s going to die. “I want you so much. I think about you all the time—your cock.” He groans. His little girl saying the word cock—telling him she wants him. It’s too much to handle. “Tell me it’s not in my head. Tell me you feel the same.”

He can’t lie to her. Can’t make her think she’s crazy. “You know I do,” whispering the admission, as though if he says it quietly, it doesn’t make it wrong. “But there are so many reasons we can’t do this. You know what people would say if they found out I touched you like this. They’d take you away from me.”

“But I’m so horny,” Clarke says, and she sounds like she’s almost on the verge of tears. The slow, torturous way she’s rocking her hips has him feeling the same way. “My pussy hurts, daddy.”

Fuck. The magic word. It occurs to him she knew exactly what she was saying the whole time.

He grips her waist hard, his head falling to her shoulder, trying to control himself. “Clarke, sweetheart. Princess.”

“Please, daddy.”

How can he deny her, when she wants it so badly? When she’s in such pain, and he can make her feel better?

“No one can know,” he rasps. “And your panties stay on.”

Clarke nods, and she increases the speed of her gyrating. Bellamy watches her, entranced, as she humps his cock. Her fingers find their way into his hair, but he keeps his firmly on her waist. She’s so desperate, so needy, as she grinds against him, rubbing her clit against his massive bulge. The sounds coming from her mouth are obscene, and god she looks so fucking gorgeous, flushed and panting.

“That’s it, baby girl,” he groans. “Hump daddy’s cock, make yourself feel good. You look so pretty, sweetheart.”

“Oh my god, daddy,” she moans. She drops her head to his shoulder, her arm wrapping around his neck, moaning in time with her thrusts. Bellamy fights to keep his composure, but it’s a losing battle. Every moan, every rub of her hot cunt against his erection, every time the word _daddy_ slips from her mouth, he spirals a little further into bliss and madness.

“Clarke,” he groans. “Are you going to come for me, baby girl? Look at me when you come, I want to see you. That’s it, princess.”

She pulls her head away from his shoulder, and it only takes her a few more strokes of her pussy on his cock before she’s tilting her head back, crying out, clutching at him as she orgasms on top of him. Fuck, she looks so fucking gorgeous.

She’s stopped her motions now, although her thighs are still quivering, but Bellamy is nowhere near satisfied. She’s teased him right to the brink, and is cock is harder than ever, throbbing painfully. He thrusts his hips up against her, almost unintentionally. He needs to come, and he needs to come now.

His arms circle around her, and then he’s shifting her from his lap, laying her down on the sofa so he’s on top of her, his cock still pressed against her pussy. When he looks down, he can see how wet she’s made herself, soaking through her panties and onto his sweatpants.

“Look at how wet you are,” he groans.

“I’m always this wet for you, daddy,” she confesses. _Fuck._ How often does she think about him this way? As often as he thinks about her? He wants to know all her dirty little fantasies about him.

His eyes rake over her, taking in her messy hair, her flushed skin, the way the shirt she’s wearing has opened so her tits are almost visible.

“Fuck, you are so gorgeous, princess.”

“Kiss me,” she begs. His lips are already so close to hers, it wouldn’t take much. And how can he refuse her, when he wants it just as much? He brings his mouth to hers as he thrusts his hips against her. His tongue pushes into her mouth and she accepts him greedily, meeting him with her own tongue.

“Fuck,” he groans. “This is so wrong.”

“It’s okay,” Clarke assures him. “I want it. Please. I want to make you feel good.”

Her legs are wrapped around him now, her body pressed up against his in all the best ways, and he can’t hold himself back any longer. He ruts against her, desperately chasing his release, humping her wet panties with a vigour he didn’t realise he possessed. He keeps his mouth on hers the whole time, kissing her, revelling in the feel of her lips on his. Nothing else matters except the way her body feels.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Fuck, I’m going to come. You feel so perfect, baby.”

He grunts animalistically as he comes, holding his cock against her mound, semen flooding into his boxers as he finally gets his much-needed release.

“Bellamy,” Clarke whimpers. “Will you fuck me? Please?”

Bellamy gut drops, and he comes hurtling to his senses. Fuck. Fuck. He leaps up from the couch, putting a good few feet of distance between them.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he swears. “Clarke—” he groans. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have—oh my god. Fuck.” He drags his hand through his hair, overwhelming guilt and self-loathing filling him.

She sits up, her lip trembling. Shit, she looks sexy. All fucked out, in his shirt, the wet patch on her panties mirroring the one on his pants.

“Bellamy, it’s okay,” she tries to assure him. “I wanted it. I promise I wanted it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bellamy says. “I shouldn’t have done that, not to you. God. Fuck.” He’s despicable. He’s corrupted her, ruined her. Touched her in a way that a father should never touch his daughter.

“Bellamy, please. I won’t tell anyone.”

“It can’t happen again,” he growls.

“But—”

“No, Clarke,” he snaps. “I know you think you want me, but this is just—it’s so fucked up. God, the fucking—psychological trauma I’ve probably caused you. Touching you like that.”

“You’re not my dad, Bellamy,” she reminds him.

“Technicalities don’t matter,” he says. “Maybe I’m not your dad but I can’t be—whatever you want me to be. I need you to start dressing properly when you’re around me. I’m not saying this is your fault, but fuck. I can’t think clearly when you’re walking around in my shirts, flashing me your panties. Shit. You’re fucking _seventeen_.”

Tears splash onto her cheeks, and Bellamy feels even more wretched than before. He really is the worst person alive.

“I’m sorry,” she sobs.

He wants to go to her, hold her, make her feel better. But how can he, when that’s the very thing that got them into this situation in the first place? When the evidence of his crime is all over the front of his sweatpants? When he can’t stop looking at her, half naked and crying, and his cock is starting to harden again because he’s just that sick in the head?

“Clarke,” he says, softly, kneeling as close to her as he dares. “Please don’t cry. It’s not your fault, it’s mine. I shouldn’t have let it get so far. I should’ve been able to control myself. I wish I didn’t think about you like this, but I do, and it’s wrong. It’s so, so wrong. So we have to be more careful. Do you know what would happen if anyone found out what we did?”

Clarke nods, wiping her eyes. “They’d take me away from you.”

“Exactly. I couldn’t bear it if that happened.”

“Me either,” Clarke agrees.

“So we never speak of this again, yeah? And we don’t think about each other like that anymore.”

“Okay,” Clarke agrees.

“Okay,” Bellamy repeats, sealing their pact. He only wishes it would be as easy as that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> posting now to make up for bumming everyone on twitter out with my bellamy's death scene playlist
> 
> reminder that this fic was written for bell out of love

Bellamy drags himself downstairs the following morning, after a fitful night’s sleep, where he tossed and turned, thinking about Clarke on his lap, grinding on his cock, torn between arousal and guilt.

He can hear Clarke in the kitchen, and he’s almost too cowardly to face her. But he has to act like everything’s normal. Pretend it never happened. Pretend he didn’t stroke his cock last night while he thought about her, hoping she was fingering herself to the thought of him.

_She’s your daughter_ , he tells himself. That should sicken him into keeping his thoughts pure, even if it’s only half true. It doesn’t, of course.

He takes a deep breath and walks into the kitchen, bright smile on his face, as if he slept wonderfully and is ready for anything the day may throw at him. Clarke looks like she’s forcing a similar attitude.

She’s dressed, thank god, in a button up dress with a collar, pink with a white floral pattern. It’s not overly tight or short, and he thinks she took what he said about dressing properly to heart. He feels awful about it. She shouldn’t have to think about him when she’s getting dressed, wondering if her choice of attire is going to make her father horny.

She’s got a pink ribbon in her hair to match her dress. Bellamy has had fantasies about that ribbon before, pulling it out of her hair and binding her wrists with it, then fucking her like that, all tied up and naked in his bed.

He swallows, trying to put the thought out of his mind.

“Good morning,” she smiles, handing him his fresh coffee.

“Good morning, baby girl,” Bellamy says, unthinking. She flushes, fiddling with her hair uncomfortably. His cock jumps. God, fuck. He can’t call her that. “Princess,” he amends. It should be safer, but she blushes even harder, and he knows they’re both thinking about how he whispered the nickname as he praised her for orgasming on top of him.

He hates himself for tainting that innocent word. What can he call her now? Even _kid_ is ruined, because he can only think about how she’d call him daddy every time he used it. He swallows thickly, desperately trying to think of a way to salvage the situation.

Clarke recovers more quickly, and she smiles, as if he said nothing wrong, her face already returning to its normal colour.

“Should we clean up a bit before Octavia come over? Or do we not care what she thinks?”

Bellamy frowns. “She’s coming over?”

“For lunch, remember?”

Bellamy vaguely remembers his sister inviting herself over for lunch, claiming she hasn’t seen either him or Clarke in ages. He supposes it has been a while—Clarke’s birthday was probably the last time.

He sighs. “I guess we should tidy a little,” he agrees. At least it will give him something to do that will hopefully keep his mind off what happened last night.

It doesn’t.

If Bellamy thought his attraction for Clarke was painful before, it’s nothing compared to now. Sure, Clarke has stopped wearing his shirts around the house. But she could wear a fucking garbage bag and he’d still find her attractive, so that cute little dress is hardly better.

He really tries to be good, to not look at her, to not think of her that way, but he catches himself staring at her tits all too often, salivating like an animal. He’s pathetic and disgusting.

And the way she looks at him when she thinks he’s not looking—he doesn’t know how he never noticed before. Longing, wanting. It’s enough to drive a man mad.

Octavia arrives, letting herself into the house without knocking. She bustles into the kitchen where Bellamy is getting lunch ready, and she deposits a store-bought salad on the counter.

“Thought I should contribute,” she says. She places a bottle of red wine next to the salad. Infinitely more enticing than the salad. “What are we having?”

“Chicken focaccias,” Bellamy responds. “You want to pour the wine?”

Octavia does as she’s bid, and Clarke skips into the kitchen moments later.

“Hey, kiddo,” Octavia says, pulling her into a hug. “How come we haven’t caught up lately, hm?”

Clarke shrugs, pulling away. “Busy with school I guess.”

“Well, I guess that’s a good excuse,” Octavia laughs. Bellamy hands them each a plate with a focaccia, and the three of them take their places at the dining table. “Almost summer though. And then it will be your senior year! Have you thought about which colleges you’re going to apply for yet?”

Bellamy tenses at the question. He’s so not ready to think about Clarke going off to college. Leaving him for god-knows where. All grown up, without him to protect her. Someone else will be the first to have her, take her virginity. Some college boy with a small dick and cold hands.

He takes a few big gulps of his wine.

“Uh, not really,” Clarke says. “I don’t even know if I want to go to college.”

Bellamy’s head snaps up. That’s news to him.

“What?” Octavia frowns. “You can’t be serious.” She looks to Bellamy. “Did you know about this?”

Bellamy shakes his head. “Where is this coming from?” he asks gently. As much as he doesn’t want her to go, her also doesn’t want her to miss any opportunities. He has the money to send her to college, she’s not going to have to work three jobs and send herself into debt just to get a degree, the way he did.

“Well, I mean, you never went to college,” Clarke says to Octavia. Octavia looks less than impressed with the mention of her lack of a college education. “And I don’t know… I just don’t really want to leave.” She glances at Bellamy.

“Clarke—” Octavia starts, readying herself for an argument.

“We can discuss it later,” Bellamy interrupts. “She doesn’t need to decide right now.”

“Fine,” Octavia rolls her eyes. “What did you two get up to last night?”

Bellamy chokes on a piece of chicken, and Clarke looks visibly uncomfortable. _Oh, we just dry humped on the couch, nothing special_.

“We, uh—we watched Breaking Dawn part two,” Bellamy says.

“Haven’t you seen that like a million times?”

“Uh huh,” Clarke agrees.

The rest of their lunch passes with pleasant conversation, and then Octavia helps Bellamy clean up, while they let Clarke off the hook to go and relax.

“You’re not really going to let her not go to college, are you?” Octavia asks as she stacks the dishwasher. “I mean, I know you’re kind of a pushover when it comes to her, but this is her _future_.”

Bellamy sighs. “I can’t force her to do anything she doesn’t want to do. It’s not like she can’t go to college later in life if she changes her mind. Hell, she might even change her mind tomorrow. She’s got time.”

Octavia huffs. “But you’re not that concerned, are you? You’d be happy if she stayed with you forever, so you can keep babying her and hoping she never grows up.”

“That’s not true,” Bellamy says defensively, even though it kind of is.

“You’re being selfish,” Octavia says, ignoring his protest. “You need to stop treating her like a little girl. The world is going to ruin her if you don’t stop being so fucking over-protective. Make her get a job, go to college. Tell her she can’t live here anymore once she graduates. She’s too naïve for a seventeen-year-old.”

“Naïve?” Bellamy hisses. “She was in a fucking car accident that killed her dad when she was _six_. Her mother was a drug addict who died of a drug overdose a year later. I think she fucking deserves some safety and security after what she’s been through. I’m not being selfish, I’m trying to give her the support we never got. So she never has to worry about where her next pay check is coming from, or whether she’ll be able to buy food, or if she’ll have somewhere to sleep. Fuck, Octavia.”

He groans, breathing heavily. Octavia looks stunned, and more than a little guilty.

“You’re right, I’m sorry,” she says quickly. Words he’s not sure he’s ever heard his sister utter. “I guess I’m just—jealous. She’s got the world at her feet, all these opportunities I never had. And she’s going to waste it.”

“You could still go to college if you want to. But I thought you were happy.”

“I am,” Octavia says. “I love being a personal trainer. I just feel short changed sometimes.”

“I get it,” Bellamy says. “I’m sorry I couldn’t give you all that.”

Octavia shrugs. “Not your fault. Just—promise me you’ll consider talking to her about college? At least get her to think about the decision she’s making.”

“I promise,” Bellamy agrees.

Octavia leaves not long after that, and Clarke reappears to say goodbye.

“Thanks for defending me,” Clarke whispers, once Octavia is gone.

“I didn’t realise you heard all that.”

“Are you going to make me go to college?”

Bellamy smiles wryly. “You and I both know I can’t force you to do anything. But I do think you should go.”

“You don’t want me here,” she says, drawing entirely the wrong conclusion.

“Of course I want you here,” he says. “But you’ve got your whole life ahead of you. There’s so much more for you to experience. You really want to be stuck here with me for the rest of your life?”

She shrugs. “Would it be so bad?”

“Clarke,” Bellamy says. “You know, I think—as much as I would love for you to stay here forever. It would be better if we spend some time apart. Especially with—with what happened last night.”

Clarke nods shortly “Right,” she says, defeated. “I understand.”

Bellamy isn’t entirely sure she does understand. He feels like they’ve never been more off from each other. Normally they understand each other perfectly, can speak without words. But now he’s hurt her, and he doesn’t know how to explain it to her to make it better. He can’t help but wonder if all this pretending, hiding emotions, lying to themselves, is making them get their wires crossed. He hates it.

“You’ve still got a year to figure it out,” Bellamy says.

Clarke nods again, jaw tight, then retreats to her room, leaving Bellamy to stew in his own guilt and misery.

-

Bellamy schedules another date with Roma, to make up for the one he cancelled. It’s not because he has any interest in seeing Roma. It’s just because, despite his best efforts, he can’t stop thinking about Clarke. The way he’s not supposed to think about her.

Perhaps their tryst in the living room should have sated his hunger for her, but it seems it’s only made it worse. No matter how he tries to distract himself throughout the day, whether with work, or errands or working out—when his head hits the pillow at night he sees her on top of him, humping his cock, desperately chasing release.

He can’t stop himself from stroking himself, thinking about her. He doesn’t let himself come, but he tortures himself, taunting his cock with the promise of a release it will never get. He falls asleep hard and throbbing, and he wakes the same way, always taking a long cold shower before going downstairs to greet her, only for the shower to be a moot point once he lays his eyes on her.

He takes his sexual frustration out on people who don’t deserve it, snapping at co-workers, and at his only friend, Miller.

So he goes on a date with Roma because he’s fucking horny, and if he doesn’t get laid soon he’s going to implode. He tells Clarke he’s hanging out with Miller again, a lie she accepts easily, because who the fuck else would he be going to see? He hasn’t dated in the last ten years, Clarke has no reason to suspect he would start now.

He takes Roma on a proper date this time, to a restaurant on a Saturday night. She’s dressed to kill, and for half a second, he almost feels something. He has no doubts that she’ll take him to bed tonight, should he be open to it.

He gets a little tipsy, and so does she. He’s nervous—he hasn’t had sex in almost two years now, unless he counts dry humping Clarke until he came in his pants, which he _doesn’t_. The alcohol helps with his nerves though, and he gets bolder, and Roma gets giggly, and they have a nice dinner. And when she asks him back to her place he says yes.

He kisses her as soon as they’re a step inside her front door, wanting to get it over with. It’s messy, and lacking his usual technique—whether it’s from the alcohol or the nerves, or a combination, he doesn’t know. He makes up for it with a second kiss, and Roma kisses him back, more aggressive than he usually likes, but perhaps she’s just as horny as he is.

Except there’s no spark. No fire slowly building in him. Kissing her doesn’t excite him, he’s just kind of going through the motions. Her hand sneaks between his legs to find him soft and flaccid. Even with her touching him there, stroking him, trying her best to get him aroused, he remains limp beneath her touch.

He pulls away, embarrassed. Fuck, he’s spent the last few months walking around his house with an uncontrollable erection, and now that he has the chance to do something about it, he can’t get it up. How fucking humiliating.

“Everything okay?” Roma asks.

“Yeah,” Bellamy says. But then he shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s not you,” he promises, even though it is.

“You have this kind of problem a lot?” she asks.

He groans. He’s very much like for the ground to open up and swallow him whole.

“No,” his pride forcing him to tell the truth, though a _yes_ would be a simpler explanation. “Must be the alcohol,” he mutters.

Roma nods. “Look, Bellamy—you seem like a great guy and everything, but I’m not sure we’re right for each other. This has nothing to do with, um—your—situation.” She gestures to his crotch.

Bellamy huffs out a laugh. It clearly has everything to do with his _situation_. But he doesn’t blame her. What use is he to her if he can’t even get his dick hard?

“Yeah,” he agrees. “You’re probably right. I guess I’ll see you around.”

Roma waves him goodbye, and Bellamy can’t help but cringe at the thought of her telling all her friends about his inability to perform.

He sobers up a little on his way home. He feels embarrassed and dejected, but also kind of relieved. He tried with Roma, and it didn’t work. He can go back to miserably pining over Clarke. Not that he ever really stopped.

It’s after midnight by the time he gets home. He lets himself in as quietly as possible, and tiptoes upstairs. He opens Clarke’s door a crack to check on her. His stomach drops when he sees her bed is empty. He tries not to panic. He wracks his brain, trying to remember if she told him she’d be staying at a friend’s house tonight, but he comes up empty.

“Clarke?” he calls. No answer. “Clarke?” he yells, louder this time. Panic sets in now. He grabs his phone from his pocket and switches it on. He’d turned it off so he wouldn’t be distracted while he was with Roma, and now he’s filled with immeasurable guilt. What if something’s happened to Clarke and she tried to contact him, and he didn’t answer? Fuck. Fuck.

His phone lights up, and messages from Clarke flood his screen. Eight missed calls, too.

_Where are you?_

_What time are you coming home?_

_Why aren’t you answering your phone?_

_I’m worried. Where are you?_

_You don’t normally turn your phone off._

She sounds like a jealous wife, but other than that, he doesn’t seem like anything is particularly wrong. He dials her number, stomach churning, mind whirling through a hundred possibilities, each more horrible than the next. If something has happened to her, he’ll never forgive himself.

He paces the hallway, willing her to pick up the phone, call him crazy for worrying because she told him she was sleeping over at Wells’.

Before that can happen, Bellamy realises he can hear her ringtone coming from down the hall. He follows the sound, stopping at his own bedroom and pushing the door open. His shoulders slump in relief when he sees her form curled up in his bed, her phone lit up on the table beside it.

Bellamy puts his own phone away and flips on the light.

“Bellamy?” Clarke says croakily, squinting into the bright light.

“God, princess, what are you doing in here? I went to check on you and you weren’t there. I was worried sick.”

She sits up and the covers fall away, revealing her tiny little pyjamas. _Now_ his cock responds. “How do you think I felt?” Clarke asks, her voice trembling. Bellamy is propelled towards her, kneeling down by the bed to stroke her hair.

“What do you mean? I told you I was going out with Miller.”

“I saw Miller three hours ago when I went to the grocery store to buy chocolate,” she says icily.

Bellamy swallows. “Clarke—”

“You smell like perfume,” she whispers, clearly upset. “Were you with a girl?”

She sounds more like a jealous wife than ever. Bellamy clears his throat, standing up. “Yes,” he says. No point in continuing to lie to her. He never should have lied in the first place, but he knew she wouldn’t like it. Knew deep down she’d act like _this_.

Clarke juts her bottom lip out sullenly, halfway between a petulant child and a spurned lover. “How long have you been seeing her? Did you kiss her? Did you fuck her?”

He bristles. “Fuck, Clarke,” he groans, lurching to his feet. “That’s so inappropriate. You have no right to ask me that.”

“You did,” she accuses, hurt creasing her face. “How could you?”

“And what if I did?” he huffs. “I have every right to fuck whoever I want to. I’m not your boyfriend, Clarke. You’re acting like a spoilt brat.”

Clarke looks at him like he slapped her. Her eyes brim with tears and betrayal. “Fine,” Clarke snaps. She stands up abruptly. Angry tears stream down her face. “Do whatever you want, I don’t care. It’s not like my opinion matters, I’m just some stupid kid.” She storms past him and out of the room, back to her own, slamming the door behind her.

Bellamy groans, dragging a hand through his curls. He hadn’t meant to get all angry and defensive like that. Hadn’t wanted to hurt her. But seeing her seething and jealous stirred something in him, and if he hadn’t put her in her place, her would have ended up trying to console her. Kissing her tear-stained cheeks to calm her down. Kissing her pretty pink lips to soothe her fears.

He wants to follow her to her room and beg her forgiveness. Promise he never fucked Roma, that he couldn’t, because he belongs to Clarke, and Clarke alone.

Instead, he keeps his pride, and he nurses it until he falls asleep, because it’s the only thing he has to hold onto.

-

Clarke is nowhere to be seen when Bellamy comes downstairs the next morning. There’s no fresh coffee waiting for him, and it’s not like he minds making his own. But that’s how he knows he’s really fucked up.

He creeps back upstairs and pauses outside Clarke’s door. He knocks softly.

“Clarke?” he calls. No response. “Clarke, are you in there? If you don’t answer I’m going to assume something terrible has happened to you,” he tries to joke.

“Go away!” she yells back. “I don’t want to speak to you.”

He feels sick. She’s never been this mad at him before. And he can’t even pinpoint exactly what it is she’s so mad about. Is it because he lied, or is it because she feels betrayed that he went on a date with someone? And is she jealous because _she_ wants to date him, or is she just scared she won’t be the number one girl in his life anymore?

He has no idea how to fix it. He’s always been the one there for her, to comfort her, make her feel better. He’s not usually the cause of her pain. He hates himself more than ever.

He wants to apologise, and he knows she deserves it. He was too harsh last night. None of this is her fault, and he shouldn’t have lashed out at her for being understandably upset when she didn’t know where he was and couldn’t reach him. The jealousy—well, hadn’t he acted the exact same way when she wanted to go on a date with Finn? And he’s supposed to be the mature one.

He decides to leave her be, for now. Respect her space, and maybe think up a suitable apology in the meantime. He scrawls a note on the back of an old receipt and leaves it on the kitchen counter for her, in case she comes downstairs and can’t find him.

_Princess_   
_I’m so sorry about last night. I’ve gone out for a while but I hope we can talk later. Love you._   
_Bellamy x_

He goes to the gym first, hoping an hour or two of physical exercise will clear his head and help him how to handle this situation. He showers at the gym after his workout, and he’s still no closer to figuring out what to say to Clarke than he was before.

He stops by a florist on his way home, and buys her a bouquet of pink roses. Then he feels like an idiot, because roses are what you buy for a lover’s quarrel, not for your seventeen-year-old daughter. But then, he’s not entirely convinced this _isn’t_ a lover’s quarrel, at least on her end.

He makes his way back to her bedroom door, hesitating before he taps out three knocks. He holds the roses in the other arm.

“Clarke,” he calls, when she doesn’t respond right away. “Clarke, I’m coming in.”

He turns the handle and steps into the room, expecting to see her in bed, or drawing at her desk. Instead, he sees her bed stripped bare, the sheets and blankets now draped across the room to form an extravagant blanket fort. The blanket palace. Bellamy’s heart seizes.

She hasn’t needed her comfort space for _years_. Not since she was fourteen and a boy she liked asked her out as a joke. Bellamy still remembers how angry he was, how he wanted to hunt that boy down and break his arms for hurting his little girl like that. Now Bellamy is the one that’s hurt her, and he’s sure he’s the worst person on the planet.

He kneels down by the entrance of the blanket palace, where two sheets meet like a curtain, forming a makeshift door.

“Clarke?” he says softly.

“What do you want?”

He sighs. He’s figured out by now, the only way to make it up to her is to tell her the truth. The whole truth, without holding back because he’s afraid of what it might mean, of what he might do, once it’s all out there. Things he can’t take back.

“I’m sorry,” he says, starting simple. “I’m so sorry I lied to you, princess. I was a coward. I didn’t want to know how you’d react if you knew. So I didn’t tell you. I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“If you didn’t want to hurt me, why would you go out with her in the first place?”

“Sweetheart, please,” he begs. “I didn’t go out with her to hurt you. You’re still my number one girl. No one is ever going to take that away from you, but—”

“But you don’t want me like that,” she says. He can hear the tremor in her voice.

“No, baby,” he says. “That’s not it at all.”

“Then what?” she says. He detects a sniffle, a tell-tale sign of tears. “Why did you go out with her?”

“I had to, kid,” he says. “After—I found those panties of yours—" he swallows, his cock stirring at thought of her wearing the transparent lingerie for him. “I had to find somebody else to take my mind off you. Not that it worked,” he snorts. “I’m a weak man, Clarke. I could’ve had Roma, but instead I let myself touch you in a way I never should have. So I kept seeing her, in the hopes it wouldn’t happen again.”

“So you fucked her to stop yourself from fucking me?” Clarke asks.

“I never fucked her, princess. I couldn’t. I tried, but it was no use. I only want you. She couldn’t get me hard. Not like you do.”

He shouldn’t be confessing all this to her. It’s sick for him to even think it, let alone say it out loud. But he’s always been honest with her before, and it’s his dishonesty that made her upset. And if she hates him even more after this, at least she’ll know the whole truth.

“Really?” she asks, hopefully. 

“Yeah,” he whispers huskily. “Really. Can I come in? I brought you something.”

“Okay,” she agrees.

He pushes the sheet aside, and crawls into the blanket fort, roses still under one arm. She’s sitting cross legged amongst a pile of cushions and soft toys, and she’s got fairy lights strung up inside, twinkling above them. She looks so pretty in a little wrap dress that matches the blue of her eyes, the neckline a deep V that leaves Bellamy’s eyes hooked on her cleavage. He’s relieved to see she’s still wearing her bracelet—she hadn’t hated him enough to take it off. She hasn’t done her hair or make up, and her natural beauty leaves him winded, even through the tear-stains on her cheeks.

“Are those for me?” she asks, nodding at the flowers. He nods handing them to her as he sits on a cushion beside her. “You bought me flowers,” she says, pleased. She’s certainly perked up.

He laughs. “You deserve it, kid.” She gives him a disapproving look, her lips pursed, one eyebrow raised, reminding him of her hatred of the nickname. “Princess,” he amends.

She nods, satisfied. She drops her gaze to study the roses, fingering the petals, almost nervously. She looks up at him, lip caught between her teeth.

“And you said—I make you hard,” she says, a tinge of pink dusting her cheeks as she speaks.

“I’m sorry,” he says, shifting his weight, hoping his erection is inconspicuous. It’s a mix of her luscious tits, and her schoolgirl innocence, and the filthy words coming from her mouth that turns him on. “Does that make you uncomfortable?”

Clarke shakes her head quickly. “No. I want you to say more stuff like that.”

“Like what?”

“Dirty stuff,” she says. “I want to hear what you think about me.”

He eyes her carefully. “I shouldn’t.”

“Please?” she begs, pouting. He gives her a pained look, and she bats her eyelashes at him. God, she’s always going to get her way with him, isn’t she?

“Lie down,” he says. “I can’t say it if I’m looking at you.” She obeys him, setting the roses aside and settling herself amongst her pillows. Bellamy lies down beside her, making sure there’s an impenetrable wall of cushions between them. The last thing he needs is her firm little ass pressed against his crotch while he divulges his dirty fantasies about her.

His heart thrums as he stares up at the fairy lights above them. God, this is such a horrible, terrible idea. He should leave now that she’s forgiven him. But he can’t.

He’s silent for a long time. Where does he even start?

“Do you think about me when you touch yourself?” she prompts him.

“I try not to,” he says. “I don’t—I try not to touch myself at all, because I know I’d be thinking of you. And I can’t let myself do that.”

“But you think about me anyway.”

“Yes,” he says. “All the time. Think about how I want to kiss you. Not just your lips. Everywhere.”

“Even my pussy?”

“ _Especially_ your pussy,” he growls. He thinks he hears her whimper.

“I wish you would,” she whispers.

“You know why I can’t.”

“No one would have to know,” she says. She turns onto her side, and he can see her watching him out the corner of his eye.

“Clarke,” he groans.

“I think about you all the time too,” she says. “When I finger myself. I pretend it’s your fingers. Or your tongue. I get so horny thinking about you.”

He groans again. He cock is so hard it could cut glass. “Clarke, you shouldn’t be telling me this.”

“I don’t want it to be a secret anymore,” she says. “I can’t keep it inside anymore. I know no one would understand—but _you_ understand. You always understand me.” He doesn’t say anything—he’s not sure he’s capable of forming a coherent sentence. “I’m sorry I made you think I wanted to have sex with Finn. I thought I wanted to have a sexual experience. But really I think I just wanted to make you jealous.”

“It worked,” he grunts.

“I don’t want to have sex with Finn. I only want you. I’ve been saving myself for you, daddy.”

“God, princess. You can’t call me that.”

“Because it turns you on?”

“Because it’s a little too close to the truth. And yes, because it turns me on.”

“It turns me on too,” Clarke says, excited. “Makes my pussy so wet, daddy. Wet for your cock.”

“Fucking hell,” Bellamy swears. “Where’d you get such a filthy mouth?”

She grins cheekily. “I read porn. The kind where the girl gets fucked by her stepfather.” She turns her pleading blue eyes on him. “Please, daddy. I don’t understand why you think it’s so wrong.”

“Because you’re seventeen. Because I’m practically your father. Because I raised you, because it’s fucking perverted.”

“I’m technically legal,” she says. “And we’re not related. You didn’t adopt me. And you raised me to know I want a man who treats me right. And _you_ treat me right. What’s perverted about that?”

He hates that she’s making sense, that his resolve is fading. He turns on his side so he’s facing her. Somehow, the pillows between them seem to have disappeared. Did she move them?

He reaches out to stroke her face. “If anybody found out,” he whispers, his chest and cock aching. “If I did to you what I want to do to you, and people found out. They’d think I groomed you. They’d think I took in this little girl so I could raise her up to be my submissive little fucktoy.”

She gasps at his words, and he instantly regrets them. What is he doing, using words like _fucktoy_ to refer to her?

“Sorry,” he says, cringing. “That’s not how I think of you, I promise, sweetheart.”

“What if I want you to think of me that way?”

“You want to be just a sexual object to me? How could you think I could ever reduce you to that?”

Clarke blushes. “Not _just_ a sexual object,” she says. “I want—” she cuts herself off, biting her lip.

“What do you want, princess? You can tell me.”

“I just want you,” she says. “I want to be with you. In every way.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs. God, he wants that too. She’s the only woman he wants, the only woman he’s wanted for years now. And she wants him too.

“Don’t call me that,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “Unless you mean it. Unless you love me the way I love you.”

“I do, baby. I promise I do. That doesn’t make it right.”

“Then why does it feel like the only thing that’s right to me?”

The moment she voices those words, he knows he feels the same way. He knows it’s wrong, in his right mind, his logical, moral mind, he knows. But his heart tells him different. His heart tells him he loves her, and he’ll never love anyone else the way he loves her. So completely, without expectation. So pure and unconditional. There is nothing about her he doesn’t love.

His mind tells him she’s his responsibility, that doing this would mean breaking her trust, perhaps fucking her up for life. His morals remind him he raised her, taught her how to swim, how to ride a bike, how to cook, how to drive, change a tire, braid her hair.

And his heart says, _would it be so bad if he taught her this too?_

There’s a pleading look in her eyes, and her lips are wet and slightly open, begging for a kiss. A kiss, he can give her that. He already kissed her once, what harm could it do?

But once his lips are on hers, he doesn’t ever want to stop. His hand cups her jaw, and her mouth opens for him, welcoming and eager. He rolls over slightly, repositioning them so he’s half on top of her, rather than beside her. He can feel her nipples, hard through the thin material of her dress and his t-shirt.

His tongue explores her mouth, then he backs off, flicking her beauty mark with his tongue, nipping at her lips, then just gently brushing over them with his own. She’s a good kisser. The way she sweeps her tongue across makes his stomach flip over.

“Baby,” he groans. “Was I the first person to kiss you?”

Clarke shakes her head. Their faces are so close it makes their noses brush together. Bellamy feels a rush of possessive jealousy, too great to contain, and it comes out in the form of a biting kiss, much rougher than their previous one.

“Makes me crazy to think of someone else touching you,” he says as he pulls back. “You’re mine, baby girl.”

“You mean it?”

Bellamy nods. To prove it, he claims her mouth again in a searing kiss, until he’s sure she’s forgotten she’d ever been kissed before him.

“Daddy,” she gasps, when he finally lets her up for air. “Touch me. Please. I’m so wet, daddy.”

Bellamy groans. He’s so hard already. Is he really going to cross that line? Does he even have a hope of resisting? She notices his hesitation, and she juts her lip out, in that pedantic way he likes.

“Please, daddy,” she begs. “I’ll be a good girl, I promise. We’ll keep it a secret until I’m eighteen. I’ll be your daughter in public and your lover in private. What difference does it make now? Please? Are you going to let me suffer?”

She’s manipulating him, he knows that. But he’s very open to being manipulated, and his better judgement left him long ago.

“No, baby girl,” he says. “I don’t want you to suffer. Daddy’s going to take care of you, I promise.”

She bites her lip, and her eyes widen slightly, like she hadn’t really been expecting him to give in.

He toys with the tie on her wrap dress, and they’re watching each other, eyes hooded with lust, breath baited. He unwraps her like a gift he wants to savour. He pulls on the tie, lets it unravel. Then he slides a hand under the front panel of her dress, across her stomach. He uses both hands to push away the material, and then she’s on display for him.

His eyes rake over her, hungry, predatorial. Those magnificent tits, unfettered by a bra, laid out before him in all their glory, decorated with faint stretch marks, tipped with pointed pink nipples, straining towards him like she’s desperate for him to put them in his mouth.

Her cunt is covered by a pair of pale blue cotton panties, and there’s a noticeable wet spot staining them, like she’s been turned on for hours.

He stares at her for what feels like an eternity, and it must feel even longer for her. She’s blushing under his appraisal, pretending she’s innocent. But he knows better now. He still doesn’t touch her yet.

“God, you are beautiful, princess,” he says. “So sexy. Can’t stop looking at you. At your pretty tits. Love your tits so much, baby girl. You like showing them off for me, don’t you?”

Clarke nods, blushing. “Yes, daddy.” She chews her lip. “I never liked them before.”

“Before what?”

“Before I realised you liked them.”

He swallows. “And when was that?”

“I don’t know,” Clarke whispers. “A year ago maybe? I saw you looking when I was in a bikini. And then a lot of times after that.”

“Believe me, baby, I’ve been admiring them a lot longer than that. Since you asked me to buy you a bra.”

“You wouldn’t let me buy anything pretty,” she remembers.

“Of course not,” he scoffs. “How could I stay sane knowing my little girl was walking around wearing lacy bras and matching panties?” Clarke smiles bashfully. “Speaking of panties,” Bellamy says, his voice low. His eyes drop to where she’s squeezing her thighs together tightly, trying to stifle her immense arousal.

Bellamy slips his hand between her knees, forcing her legs to separate as his hand glides up her inner thigh, stopping at the crease. She looks like she’s holding her breath, patiently waiting for him to touch her where she wants to be touched.

“Daddy,” she whines, when he still makes no move to touch her pussy.

“Your panties are all wet, baby girl,” he notes. “That can’t be comfortable.”

Clarke shakes her head. “No, daddy,” she agrees.

“Let me take them off for you, sweetheart. Let daddy see your pretty little pussy.”

Clarke nods eagerly, and Bellamy drags her panties down, heart pounding. God, there she is, his little girl, all naked for him. Her wet, virgin pussy on display, shaved completely bare. All for him. He’s the only one who gets to see, who gets to touch.

“Look at you,” he coos. “God, look at you. So gorgeous. So perfect.”

“Really?”

“Of course, princess.”

He kisses her again then, and she arches her naked body up against him. Fuck, fuck. She kisses him back, so fucking filthily he wants to kill whoever taught her that, but at the same time thank them. His cock juts out, rubbing against her hip. Fuck. He’s really going to fuck her.

He's going to fuck her, but he’s going to make it perfect for her. His baby deserves for her first time to be magical, and he knows he can give it to her.

His lips leave hers, only so he can make good on his promise to kiss her everywhere. He peppers kisses across her jaw, down her neck. He slips her arms out of her sleeves, kissing her shoulders as he goes. He worships her breasts with his mouth, and her nipples with his tongue. He delights in the sounds that come from her mouth, tiny gasps and moans, and he hasn’t even touched her _there_ yet.

He runs his palm down her stomach, watches as her breath hitches when his hand finally comes to a stop over her pussy, covering her completely. He lets his fingers trace her wet seam, and she squirms beneath his touch. He curls a finger into her then, and she gasps, bucking against the invading finger.

She feels so fucking tight around his finger, he can only imagine what it she’ll feel like with his cock stuffed into her. He’s half convinced he won’t even be able to fit. Clarke, however, has no such reservations.

“Daddy,” she groans. “Daddy, I can’t take it. I need your cock.”

“God, you’re a needy little thing, aren’t you?” he says, even as his cock pulses in agreement. Like he isn’t just as needy as she is.

He pulls his fingers from her cunt and sucks them into his mouth without thinking. God, she tastes amazing. One of these days he’s going do nothing but gorge on her pussy for hours. For now, his cock is frantic for some attention.

“Are you still on the pill, baby?”

“Yes,” Clarke says.

“Good. I don’t want anything between us when I fuck you.”

Clarke whimpers, nodding approvingly. Bellamy pulls his shirt off, and he likes the way Clarke’s eyes linger on him, pupils blown, so entranced on by her daddy’s muscles.

His pants go next, and Clarke stares at the huge tent in his boxers as he removes his sweatpants. She’s practically salivating as he pulls his boxers down, letting his cock spring free.

The way she looks up at him from her bed of pillows makes him hesitate. There’s lust there, sure. But it’s also adoration, trust, innocence. If he does this, is he going to take all that away? Or is he past the point of no return now anyway?

He’s seen her now—her magnificent, untouched body. Seen parts of her he shouldn’t. Touched her in places he shouldn’t. Shown her parts of himself he shouldn’t. He’s sure a teenage girl should never know how big her daddy’s cock is. If he retreats now, would it be possible to move past this? Pretend it never happened? He knows he never could—he knows Clarke would never let him.

That’s enough for him. Whether it will be enough to keep him from hating himself later is another matter, but he’s done thinking past this moment. His little girl wants him. Needs him. And he needs her, and he’s too weak to say no now.

He kisses her again, and again, sweetly, hoping she can feel how much he loves her and cares about her, how much he wants this to be good for her.

“I love you, baby,” he tells her.

“I love you too, daddy.”

He rubs his cock against her folds, and she spreads her legs for him. His secures her in his arms, like maybe he can still protect her from this, from himself, like he can spare her innocence.

“Please don’t hate me for this one day,” he whispers. There’s a pool of guilt already forming in the pit of his stomach, but somehow that only turns him on more.

“I could never hate you,” Clarke promises.

He pushes his cock into her. God, she’s so fucking wet, yet so tight around him.

“Fuck,” he groans. He pussy grips him like a vice, pulsing around the intruder. She squirms, and she’s panting, though she’s done nothing exerting as of yet. He keeps pushing, and somehow her tiny little body accepts massive cock, until he’s fully inside her, splitting her in half, taking her virginity. In her childhood safe place, no less. It gives him some kind of sick pleasure, to taint that memory with this one.

He’s ruined it, just like he’s ruined her. Ruined himself. And he’s fucking proud of it.

“Oh my god, daddy,” Clarke moans.

“You okay, baby girl?”

She nods. “Yes, daddy. It’s so big, daddy.”

“And you took all of it, sweetheart, didn’t you? Good girl, such a good girl, taking daddy’s big cock inside your tight little pussy. You feel amazing, baby girl.”

“I was made for you, daddy.”

God, she’s right. She was made for him. Her cunt was made to have his cock. Her lips, her breasts, her hands, her arms, her eyes—all made for him. And he swears he was made for her too.

“Yes, baby,” Bellamy groans. “You fit me so perfectly,” he says. “You were made for me, and only me. No one else. Nobody else gets to touch you, only me.”

“Yes,” she agrees breathlessly. “Fuck me. Please, daddy, I need to come.”

He’s right there with her, his cock throbbing, his balls aching. His whole body is tense, trying to keep himself from losing control and fucking her hard and recklessly, like he wants to do. But not for her first time.

He loosens his restraint just a little, rolling his hips against her, making sure she can take it before he speeds up his movements into a steady rhythm.

Her tits bounce with every thrust, and the sounds that fill their little hideaway are filthier than anything he’s heard before. Her breathy moans, the wet sound of his cock in her cunt, his own animalistic grunts, the sound of skin on skin.

“Oh god, daddy,” Clarke pants. “It feels so good. Don’t stop, please, don’t stop. I’m gonna come, daddy. I’m so close—”

“That’s my girl. Come for daddy. Good girl.”

He increases the force of his thrusts, and her words turn into unintelligible ramblings, and high-pitched cries. When she comes, she clings to him like he’s the only thing tethering her to the real world. He pussy flutters around him, wetness surging from her cunt, all over his cock. She moans shamelessly, and it’s then that Bellamy reaches his own climax.

“I’m coming,” he groans. “I’m coming in your pussy.”

“Yes,” she whines.

He comes so hard his vision blurs, all the colours around him bleeding into one another to form a new, more spectacular colour, the colour of pure bliss.

He fills her to the brim with his come, hoping she can feel it spilling into her, hoping she knows he’s marking his territory this way. That is means she’s his now.

He comes down slowly, becoming aware of his surroundings again. He collapses on top of her, chest heaving, and she’s breathing just as hard. He can feel her tits, crushed against his chest, rising and falling in time with his own breaths.

“How do you feel, baby?” he asks her, once he’s capable of speaking. “Was it everything you expected?”

“It was so good, daddy,” she hums happily.

Bellamy smiles, happy he pleased her. He rolls off her, but stays close hugging her back to his chest. Come leaks out of her as he pulls out, trailing across her thigh, onto the blankets beneath them. Clarke slips a hand between her legs, cupping her pussy tightly.

“I like it inside me,” she whispers. “I don’t want it to come out.”

“Don’t worry,” Bellamy laughs, kissing her temple. “I’ll give you plenty more.”

He waits for the guilt to hit him, but it never does. He’s too content, lying here with his girl, both naked and satisfied. It’s hard to imagine being this happy could be seen as wrong by anyone. And yet, he knows there isn’t a single person who would understand.

He doesn’t dwell on it now, but deep down he knows it’s not going to be as simple as it feels in this moment. There’s a harsh, judgemental world out there, desperate to condemn men like him, to take this perfect moment and turn it into something foul and malicious.

He doesn’t know how this ends—wants desperately for it not to end. For it to be okay for them to love each other the way they do. He knows he’ll have to face it at some point—the future, the consequences. But for now, he just lets himself be happy, hidden away in their blanket palace, where nothing from the outside world can reach them.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apparently there's a typo in here but i can't find it so you're all stuck with it <3
> 
> this fic is for bell who forced me to write bellarke again

He just holds her for a while, quietly. They don’t need to talk. They understand each other—that whatever else the future holds, this moment belongs to them.

She gets all wriggly after a while, and he knows she’s horny again. He’s hard too, a fact which hasn’t escaped her attention. She rolls onto her back, so their noses touch, then presses a shy kiss to his lips.

He moves the arm that’s laying across her stomach and slides it between her legs. Her thighs are slick with come—his and her own. He keeps his other arm wrapped tightly around her, while he dips his fingers into her.

He strokes her clit with his thumb, runs his fingers along her slit, teasing her, watching her pupils dilate, her mouth open, her cheeks flush. He studies her every reaction as he plays with her cunt, delving into her, winding her up, then backing off, edging her slowly towards orgasm, until she’s trembling, whimpering, begging.

“Please, daddy,” she whines. “Please let me come.”

He smiles to himself, but he obliges her, tipping her over with his expert touch, trying to memorise the way she looks as she comes, pink cheeked, eyelashes fluttering, mouth open in a silent cry. He never wants to forget this.

He kisses her, over and over and over. Can’t seem to stop. His lips yearn to touch her skin. God knows how long they stay there, just kissing, and whispering, and giggling like young lovers.

He’d stay there forever, but then Clarke’s stomach gives a demanding rumble, and his stomach answers in turn. Clarke laughs, and Bellamy gives a snort.

“Do you think anywhere delivers to blanket palaces?” Clarke asks.

“I think we might need to leave the blanket palace for just a little while,” Bellamy tells her, though he’s just as reluctant to leave it as she is.

He checks the time on his phone, and it’s almost three o’clock. Well past lunch time. He orders pizza—enough for now and to heat up later. He pulls on his sweatpants to get the door, while Clarke uses the brief reprieve to go to the bathroom.

Huddled back in the blanket fort five minutes later, Clarke in Bellamy’s shirt, they scoff down their pizza—pepperoni for Clarke and Hawaiian for Bellamy. She refuses to kiss him until he gets rid of his pineapple breath, and then he fucks her again, slow and purposeful.

She falls asleep not long after that—he guesses she must not have slept well last night, and now she’s warm and happy and satisfied—he feels like he could drift off himself.

When he wakes, the sun is low in the sky, and his phone tells him it’s almost eight pm. His arm has gone numb, and his back complains about the hard floor beneath them, the only padding is a couple of thin quilts.

He gently wakes Clarke with his lips, then carries her to the bathroom, where he runs a hot shower, and gets into it with her, kissing her as he soaps her up, cleans up the mess between her legs. He towels her off, then carries her to his bed. He brings her some leftover pizza, and then he fucks her again, before bundling her up in his arms, both of them exhausted.

“I love you,” she murmurs, just before she drifts off to sleep.

“I love you too,” he answers.

-

He wakes the next morning to the smell of coffee, and the sound of his bedroom door closing. His eyes blink open to see Clarke back in his shirt, carrying a mug of fresh coffee towards him. Her gait is a little affected, but other than that she seems okay. He smiles sleepily, propping himself up as she gently kneels on the bed, handing him the coffee.

“Good morning, baby,” he says, his voice gravelly with sleep. Her hair’s a mess, but she’s glowing. He takes a sip of his coffee.

“Good morning, daddy,” Clarke says. Bellamy puts his coffee aside, and reaches out to stroke her hand.

“How do you feel this morning?” he asks. 

Clarke ducks her head, blushing. “It—um—hurts a little,” she admits.

He’s not totally surprised, but he does feel a little regretful. “I’m sorry,” he says rubbing the backs of his fingers up her arms. “Was daddy’s cock a little much for you, baby?” Clarke shakes her head quickly, as if she’s afraid that if she says yes he won’t fuck her again. “It’s okay,” he assures her. “We’ll take it easy for a few days. It might take some getting used to.”

“Okay.”

“You don’t—regret anything, do you?” 

“No,” she says. “Do you?”

“Of course not, baby.”

“You’re not ashamed of me?”

“God, princess, no,” he says wrapping his arms around her. “I’m not ashamed. If I could, I’d tell the whole world about us right now. It’s not the opinions of others that bothers me, that’s not why we have to keep this a secret, okay? If the whole world was against me, it wouldn’t matter if I had you. But until you’re eighteen, I’m still your guardian. And if anyone found out what I’ve done to you, they wouldn’t see me as fit to look after you.”

“They’d think you took advantage of me.”

“Exactly,” Bellamy says. He pulls away and grips her shoulders, looking into her eyes. “I can’t risk losing you, okay? So you can’t tell your friends, you can’t tell anyone. We have to be discreet. Can you do that for me, baby?”

“Yes,” Clarke nods. “It’s kind of hot keeping it a secret anyway.”

Bellamy laughs. “You’re right,” he agrees. “Much as I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

“ _I_ know I’m yours,” Clarke says, leaning forward to kiss him.

“Hmm,” Bellamy hums as she pulls away. “Are you sure about that?”

“I don’t mind being reminded.”

He chuckles, then brushes his lips over hers, and drags his teeth over her bottom lip. “Lie down,” he commands. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to do for a long time now.”

Clarke obeys him, shuffling down the bed so her head is resting on the pillows. Bellamy crawls backwards down the bed, then pushes her t-shirt up to her waist. He presses his lips to her belly, then noses his way down to her cunt.

Clarke whimpers. “Are you going to lick my pussy, daddy?” she asks.

“Yes, baby,” he says, stroking her slit with his thumb. She’s wet already—of course she is. Probably woke up dripping, the way he woke up with his cock hard and aching. “Would you like that?”

He looks up to see her nodding fervently. “Yes, daddy.”

He slides his hands up her thighs, tilting them open, bending her knees. He kisses the smooth skin of her thigh, then sucks it into his mouth, making her moan. He can’t mark her anywhere visible—her neck or her shoulders, but he can mark her here, where only she can see it. Deciding one mark is not enough, he moves his mouth to the bare skin just above her slit, and sucks a hickey there too. She sucks in a breath. She’s _his_.

With her fingers in his hair, Bellamy finally lets his tongue slip into her folds. He lets the taste of her run over his tongue, drinking her up like he’s been wandering in the desert for days. He hooks a leg over his shoulder, finding a better angle.

He worships her clit with his tongue until she comes, shuddering through her orgasm, flooding his mouth with her juices. He doesn’t stop, though. He’s just getting started. He licks into her, pushing his tongue into her pussy, devouring her. It doesn’t take her long to come again, with his tongue working on her expertly, reading her body’s signals for what she likes and what she doesn’t like.

How many times he makes her come, he doesn’t know. He loses track. All he knows is his face is coated with her come, her pussy is swollen and red, her thighs are shaking, and hasn’t stopped moaning and crying the whole time.

Eventually, she has to beg him to stop.

“Daddy, please,” she cries, when after another orgasm he shows no sign of stopping. “I can’t take it anymore.”

He lifts his head, dazed, high on her scent. She’s flushed, her forehead covered in a sheen of sweat.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Bellamy says hoarsely. “I got carried away. You taste so good.”

Her reply is interrupted by the sound of his phone ringing. He groans, reaching for it, wondering who the fuck is calling him this early in the morning. He grabs it from the nightstand, and frowns when he sees it’s his boss. His stomach drops when he notes the time a split second later. Fuck—it’s after nine. He should have been at work half an hour ago, and Clarke is supposed to be in school.

He quickly answers, apologises to his boss, claiming car trouble, and promises he’ll be right in.

“Fuck, baby, you gotta get ready for school. You’re late already.”

“What time is it?”

“Nine-thirty,” Bellamy tells her. Fuck. _Fuck_. The spell breaks, and guilt and anxiety come rushing in. It’s been one day and their sex life is already interfering with her education. He had his head between her legs for over two hours, oblivious to anything else. “Fuck. I’m so sorry, baby,” he says.

“It’s the last week of school anyway, the teachers don’t care. Let me stay home and I can do for you what you just did for me,” she says with a pout.

Bellamy groans. “Clarke, if we’re going to do this, you have to work with me. I’m still your legal guardian, and I have to take care of you.”

“You do take care of me, daddy. You’ve been taking care of me all morning.”

Bellamy gives her a pained look. “Go and hop in the shower,” he says. Clarke looks like she wants to continue arguing about it. “I’ll be in in a minute,” he adds, and Clarke smirks to herself, scrambling off the bed. Her knees buckle under her, but she manages to catch herself, Bellamy grabbing her a second later.

“I better carry you,” he growls.

Half an hour and an orgasm later, he’s dropping her off at school. There’s no one around, but he still can’t risk a kiss goodbye, even though he wants one.

They need to be more careful. He can’t let himself lose himself in her so much that they forget about the real world. About work and school, about the judgement they—no _he_ would face if anyone found out. He knows he’s the bad guy in all this. Even though he never meant for any of this to happen, even if right now he can’t bring himself to see it that way. He loves her, and part of him feels like that should be enough. But in the eyes of the world around them, he’s a predator.

He wishes they could’ve stayed in their own little world forever, and he wonders how long it will be until reality gets too much for them, and this ends in a spectacular catastrophe.

“Don’t,” Clarke says.

“What?”

“Overthink it.”

Bellamy swallows. “I’m not.” Clarke tilts her head knowingly. “I’ll try not to,” he amends.

“Promise me you won’t get all in your head about this,” Clarke says.

Bellamy nods. “I promise,” he says.

-

It’s easier than he thought it would be. Maybe Clarke’s words actually got through to him, or maybe it’s because she makes him so fucking happy it’s hard to worry about anything else. Perhaps the magic of the blanket palace is still protecting them.

School ends, and then it’s Clarke’s summer vacation. Bellamy dreams of quitting his job and buying an RV so he can travel around the country with Clarke.

He reminds himself he loves his job, and he tries not to think too hard about Clarke waiting at home for him. He wants to message her and tell her how he’s thinking about her, tell her all the dirty things he’s going to do to her when he gets home, but he can’t risk it. If someone were to accidentally see the messages, it would be over for them.

She’s always wet and needy as hell when he gets home. He likes to tease her, pretend he’s not going to give her what she wants. It takes her a week to work up the courage to put on that sexy lingerie she bought for him. He almost dies when he comes home from work and she’s wearing nothing but that, her hair hanging over her shoulders in loose braids, tied with little white ribbons. Sexy and sweet at the same time. The most deadly combination.

He stops dead, dropping his things to the ground, when he sees her sitting on the sofa, all nonchalant, like she’s not almost naked.

“Wow,” he croaks out. “Look at you, baby girl.” She gives herself away with a deep blush. He was right—the cups of the bra barely hold her tits. “Did you get all dressed up for me?”

“Yes, daddy. Do you like it?”

He nods, making his way over to her. “I like it very much.” He stands over her, and she looks up at him. God, those fucking eyes. No one would believe her capable of the things she’s done to him so far.

She undoes his belt, and takes him into her mouth. She’s gotten too good at this over the past week. He’d kept putting it off, not because he didn’t want it, but because it felt wrong. _He’s_ supposed to take care of _her_. She gets nothing out of sucking his cock. But she begged him to let her do it, and he relented, of course, like he always does, and now he can’t get enough. Can’t get the thought of his little girl’s lips wrapped around his cock. It was a fantasy he had a lot before he ever thought it could be a possibility. The real thing is so much better.

He comes into her mouth, and she swallows it down obediently. She knows how much he likes the thought of his come inside her.

He rubs his thumb over her bottom lip, then twirls a braid around his finger thoughtfully. Then he scoops her up and carries her to his room. She hasn’t been in her own bed for over a week now.

He leaves her bra on—after all, there’s nothing he can’t see through it anyway, but he pulls her panties down so he can play with her cunt, first with his fingers, then with his mouth, and then when she’s done being compliant and starts being demanding, he finally takes her with his cock.

He can’t resist reaching out to pull on her braids as he fucks her, like a middle schooler with a crush he doesn’t know how to handle. Clarke moans each time he pulls.

“You like that, baby girl?” he coos. “Like having your hair pulled?”

“Yes, daddy. Harder, daddy.”

He doesn’t know if she means to fuck her harder, or pull her hair harder. Either way, he’s terrified of hurting her, and she still hasn’t felt the full force of his thrusts. Now though, she’s begging, begging for more, and he truly loosens the reins, pounding into her without holding back.

He gives her braids another tug when she’s right on the edge, and she arches against him, gasping through her orgasm, cunt squeezing him for all his worth, making him spill into her with an extended groan.

“Are you okay?” he asks, cupping her face, searching her face for some sign of distress.

She just smiles. “Uh huh,” she nods. “I’m not so fragile as you think,” she giggles.

“No, it would seem not,” he agrees, giving her a wet kiss. He’s not so gentle with her after that.

-

The first true test of their incognito abilities, is when they go over to Octavia’s for dinner. He’s spoken to his sister on the phone often enough, but he feels like lying is easier when you don’t have to look the person in the face.

Clarke begs him to fuck her half an hour before they’re due over there, but for once Bellamy is able to hold his ground. He doesn’t want to be late and have to try and stammer his way through an excuse, and more than that, he won’t be able to cope with the thought of his baby girl sitting there full of his come all night.

Octavia doesn’t really cook, but her boyfriend, Lincoln, does. He’s the one in the kitchen when Bellamy and Clarke arrive, ringing the doorbell, though it’s not a courtesy Octavia ever extends to them.

Octavia bustles them into the kitchen, pours Bellamy some wine, and hands Clarke a can of coke. They chat easily. Octavia has no suspicions that there’s anything untoward going on between her brother and his almost-daughter—why would she? He feels no uneasiness, no guilt. No overwhelming urge to confess his sins to his sister and her boyfriend.

He does let himself, for just a moment, imagine a world in which Clarke is allowed to be his girlfriend. A parallel universe exactly like this one, except he can hold her hand as they stand here in Octavia’s kitchen.

“Octavia, babe, where did you put the cashews?” Lincoln asks, rifling through the pantry.

“Wait, they were for this? I thought they were for snacking.”

“Are you saying you ate them?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Octavia shrugs. Lincoln groans. “Calm down, I’ll run out and get some. Clarke, you want to tag along?”

Clarke glances at Bellamy. Octavia doesn’t miss it, and she gives a scoff. “God, you are such a daddy’s girl.”

Bellamy chokes on his wine, and Clarke reddens. Octavia really has no idea.

“I am not,” Clarke huffs, and Bellamy raises an eyebrow at her. Necessary words, maybe, but words he’s going to remind her of later when she’s begging for an orgasm.

“Come on, you’ll live without him for ten minutes.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, and trails after Octavia, leaving Bellamy with Lincoln. They make awkward conversation. It’s not that Bellamy doesn’t like Lincoln, but the two of them haven’t spent much time alone together, and he doesn’t know what they have in common. Plus, he’s his sister’s boyfriend, and Bellamy feels naturally protective of her.

He’s relieved when Octavia and Clarke return, but he’s itching to know what they talked about. If Octavia has been pressuring Clarke about college again, he’s going to kill her.

But there’s no tension over the dinner table, so Bellamy can’t bring himself to be too worried about it. Well, there’s no tension until Octavia decides she’s going to bring up Roma.

“So, Bell, how are things with Roma?” she asks, waggling her eyebrows. Bellamy notes Clarke stiffen beside him. He wants to reach out and give her hand or thigh a reassuring squeeze, but he can’t be sure it would go unnoticed.

He shrugs. “It didn’t work out.”

“Oh.” Octavia seems genuinely surprised.

Bellamy frowns. “You didn’t think Roma and I were genuinely going to be a long-term thing, did you?”

“Well, I mean, no. But I thought things must have been going well. You just seem… lighter, lately. Happier.”

Bellamy forces himself not to look at Clarke, in case it’s a dead giveaway. He clears his throat. “Things have been going well at work, I guess.”

“That’s good,” Octavia smiles. “I’m happy for you. So do you want me to set you up with someone else? There’s this other woman in my kickboxing class—”

“No,” Bellamy says quickly, before Clarke can break the fork she’s holding. Besides, if there’s any chance this woman is friends with Roma, he’s pretty sure she’ll want nothing to do with him. He’s just glad the performance issue rumour hasn’t gotten back to his sister. “No,” he repeats. “I’m perfectly happy without your miserable matchmaking attempts, thanks.”

Octavia shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

On the drive home, Bellamy can’t help himself from pressing Clarke about what she and Octavia talked about when they went to buy cashews.

“She suggested we take a week away somewhere. Like a girls’ trip by the beach or something. She said I could invite some friends.”

“Oh,” Bellamy says. He’s not sure how to feel about that. He doesn’t want to be away from Clarke for a week, and while he trusts his sister, he doesn’t really trust Clarke’s friends, other than Wells, who probably wouldn’t be invited on a girls’ trip. He also doesn’t like Octavia talking to Clarke about it first, without checking with him. But he also thinks it might be good for Clarke—she could use some fun girl time.

“Don’t worry, I won’t go.”

“You can go, if you want to.”

“I think she just wants to show me all the stuff I’d be missing if I stayed here.”

“Maybe you should go then,” Bellamy shrugs. “I don’t ever want you to feel trapped by me. If you want to do stuff with your friends, you should.”

“You’re only saying that because no boys are allowed.”

Bellamy smirks. “Maybe.”

“Do you really think I should go? Won’t you miss me?”

“I’ll miss you like crazy, baby girl. And when you get back, I’ll show you just how much I missed you.”

“I like the sound of that.”

Bellamy chuckles. “So, you’re gonna go? Humour your aunt?”

Clarke screws up her nose. “Fine. But it won’t change my mind about college.”

Bellamy can’t decide if that’s a good thing or a bad thing.

-

It’s his birthday, but he buys her something. Two things, actually. Not the usual stuff he buys her—school supplies, art supplies, books, clothes. That’s the normal dad stuff. What he buys her is decidedly _not_ dad stuff.

The first is a vibrator. Of course, he prefers to be the one getting her off, but if she’s going to be without him for a week, her fingers might not be enough.

He gives it to her just before he leaves for work, too impatient for her reaction to wait until tonight. She’s still in bed, wrapped up in a sheet, and he wonders if she’ll use the gift as soon as he’s gone.

He watches her eyes widen as she pulls the box out of its wrapping. It’s pink, of course, and good quality. Small enough that she can hide it in her suitcase, big enough to keep her tight pussy satisfied. Hopefully not so satisfied that she prefers it to the real thing.

“You want me to use this?” she asks him bashfully. As if she hasn’t admitted to fingering herself to the thought of him, as if he hasn’t fucked her multiple times a day for weeks now.

“If you want to,” he says. “If you feel you need to. I might use it on you sometime.”

Clarke nods, eyeing the other present in his hands. “What else did you get me?” He hands it over.

This present is probably more for him, than for her. But he liked the way she looked so much in that pretty lingerie, he couldn’t resist buying her more. A little bra and panty set, pale pink lace. And then a garter belt and stockings. The lace isn’t as see-through as the one she bought for herself, but he thinks it’s sexier. Blood rushes to his cock at the thought of her wearing it for him.

She fingers the lace thoughtfully.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

She nods. “I think _you_ like it, which is more important. It’s your birthday after all. And I have a present for you. Tonight.” The husky timbre of her voice goes straight to his groin. He’s going to be fucking hard all day, thinking about her waiting for him, ready to give him his birthday present.

She already woke him up with a birthday blowjob, and he can only imagine what she has planned for him tonight.

She leans forward and crushes her mouth against his, teasing his tongue with her own, making him groan. It takes every ounce of his willpower to walk out of that room and go to work.

His co-workers tell him he seems _distracted_ and _dreamy_.

“Big plans for tonight?” Raven asks him. They’re friends, sort of. Work friends. He doesn’t hang out with his co-workers outside of work.

There’s a cake in the kitchen, though someone had already taken a piece by the time they gathered in there to sing him happy birthday.

“Not really,” Bellamy says. “Probably just have a quiet night in.”

“Aw, your daughter didn’t plan something special for you?”

Bellamy hopes he isn’t blushing. “I’m not big on birthdays. We’ll probably just watch a movie or something.”

“You know, I always thought it was really sweet that you took her in,” Raven muses. “You really went above and beyond your job description,” she says with a grin.

Bellamy shrugs. “Seemed like the right thing to do. Couldn’t imagine my life without her now.”

“She’s lucky to have you,” Raven says.

“No,” Bellamy says. “You got it backward.”

He doesn’t run any red lights on the way home, but it’s a near thing. Will she be wearing the lingerie he gave her? Maybe she’s prepared a lap dance or a strip tease for him. Maybe she’s covered herself in chocolate so he can lick it off her.

She’s not in the living room when he gets home, so he heads straight upstairs to his room, his heart pounding. He pushes his bedroom door open, and there she is lying on his bed, propped up against the pillows.

She’s got on the lingerie he bought her—most of it anyway. She’s foregone the panties, leaving her bare cunt on display, framed perfectly by the suspenders hooked from the garter belt to her stockings. Her hair is in half tied up in a ponytail, secured with a thick pink ribbon, while the rest of her curls fall loose over her shoulders. She’s the little girl he took care of, and the grown woman he fell in love with. He feels winded at the sight of her.

“Wow,” is all he can say. His cock has formed a significant bulge in his trousers.

“Happy birthday, daddy,” she says coyly. She grows pink under his unwavering gaze. “Do you want your present?”

He nods, unable to form any actual words. Clarke bites her lip, her blush deepening. Then she gracefully rolls over onto her stomach, presenting her bare ass to him. Bellamy’s heart stops. He feels a tug in his lower belly, and his cock throbs. She looks at him over her shoulder, and he eyes her questioningly. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth. God, he hopes he hasn’t misinterpreted.

“Will you fuck my ass, daddy?” Clarke whispers.

“God yes, baby girl,” he groans, thankful he’s able to find words at the appropriate moment.

He’s been thinking about it since long before they actually started sleeping together. Getting his cock in her ass. He thought it would take her longer to warm up to the idea, but he’s never even had to suggest it. He’s snuck his fingers between her cheeks before, testing, and she never protested. Seemed to like it even. He was working up to asking her. But now it seems he doesn’t have to, because she decided she wanted it all on her own.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asks as he moves towards the bed, unbuckling his belt. He pulls his shirt from his pants and starts unbuttoning it.

“Yes,” Clarke breathes. “I was so nervous to ask you,” she admits, watching as Bellamy shrugs his shirt off. Her eyes trail over his bare chest.

“You were nervous? Why? Did you think I would say no?”

“Maybe,” Clarke says. She chews her lip. “I didn’t know if I was supposed to want it. My friends say it’s gross. But it makes me so horny thinking about it.”

“Me too, baby,” Bellamy assures her. He sits on the bed beside her in his boxers. “I’m so happy you want it.”

He leans down to kiss her, while his hand comes to rest on her smooth ass cheek. He slides his hand down between her legs, feeling her arousal dripping from her cunt.

“Fuck, you’re wet,” he groans. “You really want this, don’t you? Want daddy to fuck your tight little asshole? Dirty girl.”

Clarke whimpers, nodding. “Yes, daddy.”

He trails his finger from her pussy to her asshole, pressing hard against it, his fingertip just sinking past her tight ring. She makes a small grunt, and he feels her clench around his finger. It’s tight, so fucking tight. How that little virgin ass is going to take his cock he doesn’t know, but if she’s willing to try, so is he.

Bellamy slips out of his boxers. Clarke watches his every move. Her eyes still get big every time she sees his cock. He doesn’t know if it’s his size that causes her reaction, or if she’s still surprised she’s allowed to look at all.

He then kneels behind her, between her legs. He unclips her bra and she slips out of it obediently, so she’s left in nothing but those sexy suspenders and stockings. He slides his hands under her, caresses her tits, unable to help himself.

He tugs at the ribbon in her hair until it comes loose, and she shakes out her hair over her shoulders. He takes her arms, first one, then the other, pulling them behind her back. Her breath hitches as he wraps the ribbon around her wrists, binding them together.

“What are you doing?” she asks. Not distressed, just curious, and definitely more than a little aroused.

“Tying you up. I want you at my mercy. Are you going to be a good girl for daddy?”

“Yes, daddy,” Clarke agrees.

He finishes knotting the ribbon around her wrists, then stops to admire his handiwork. Fuck, she looks tantalising, his little girl, all tied up, bare ass on display, presented for his pleasure.

Bellamy reaches for the lube Clarke has all ready, sitting on the nightstand. He squirts some directly onto the crease between her cheeks, then massages it in with his fingers, rubbing back and forth over her hole, feeling her start to relax under his touch.

He lubes his cock up then, applying a liberal amount—he’s going to need a lot if he has any hope in hell of fitting inside her without hurting her. He rests the length of his cock against her crack, throbbing painfully. He always looks so massive beside her, it’s a wonder she doesn’t break every time he fucks her tight little body.

She squirms under him, and he knows she’s desperate for it, though she’s trying to be patient. He adjusts his angle, positioning the head of his cock to her entrance, while he spreads her cheeks with his fingers. Fuck, he wants to slam his cock into her.

“Are you ready?” he asks her.

“Yes,” she squeaks.

“Tell me what you want, baby.”

“I want your cock in my ass, daddy.”

“Of course you do.”

He pushes in. He’s met with resistance, despite the amount of lube he’s used. He pressing a soothing hand against her ribs, strokes her side reassuringly. She relaxes slightly. His hand glides down her stomach, between her legs, and he finds her clit. He gives a small thrust, and the head of his cock squeezes into her ass.

“Fuck,” he grunts. Clarke whines. He continues to play with her clit, the stimulation allowing her asshole to open up, and he begins to slide in more easily, his thick cock stretching her out obscenely.

“Oh god, daddy,” Clarke moans, when he’s halfway in. She’s quivering around him, her breathing laboured.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asks. He rubs her bottom, and feels her clench around him.

“Yes. Oh my god. My ass feels so full, daddy.”

“I’m not done yet, baby girl. I wanna feel my balls up against your ass, can you take it?”

“Yes, daddy, I can take it. Please.”

“Good girl,” he says, pushing deeper. He gropes her ass, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. One more thrust and he bottoms out, his entire cock sheathed in his little girl’s ass, her tied up and writhing beneath him. She’s so fucking tight, and the visual is overwhelming. He knows he won’t last long. He groans as her asshole flutters around him.

“Fuck, baby,” he huffs. “How does daddy’s cock feel in your ass, hm? Filthy little girl, taking daddy’s whole cock. God, look at you.”

“Daddy,” she whimpers. “It’s so big. My ass hurts, daddy. But it feels so good. Will you fuck my ass now?”

“Yeah, princess, daddy’s gonna fuck your ass now.”

He drags his cock back, just so he can ram it into her again. She cries out. He pauses, makes sure she’s okay. She begs him to continue.

He was right, he doesn’t last long. It’s too much, she feels too good, looks too perfect, sounds divine. Every thrust of his cock makes him gasp with pleasure, and then he can feel his balls throb, ready to burst.

“I’m gonna come, baby girl,” he grunts. “Gonna fill your pretty little ass up with come.”

He takes her strangled cry as an enthusiastic yes. He lets out an embarrassing moan as he comes, releasing himself into her ass, his thick, hot seed filling her.

She whimpers as he pulls his slowly softening cock from her ass. He looks down at her, ass in the air, come dripping from her hole, ribbon wrapped around her wrists, tits pressed against the bed. He wants to take a picture, but he doesn’t dare. To have any evidence of their illicit relationship on his phone would be suicide.

“Daddy,” she sobs. “Daddy, I need to come, please.”

He obliges her, of course. He knew she wouldn’t come from anal alone, but he feels guilty he didn’t make her come before he did.

“I’m so sorry, baby girl,” he coos, pushing his fingers into her pussy, curling them in the way he knows will hit her just right. “Daddy didn’t make you come.”

“It’s okay,” she tells him. “It felt good. And it was my present to you, for your birthday.”

“Best birthday present ever,” he declares.

He fingers her until she comes, rolling her hips against his fingers, panting like she’s in heat. When the aftershocks fade away, he unbinds her wrists and rolls her onto her back, pressing soft kisses all over her body.

Clarke smiles at him dreamily. He leaves her for a moment, slipping away to the bathroom to run a bath, filling it with rose scented bubble bath. He goes back to fetch her, cradling her in his arms and carrying her to the bathtub. He gets in behind her, and she lies against his chest while he gently washes her body with a cloth.

“I love you so much,” he whispers. “You are the best thing that ever happened to me.”

-

Bellamy helps Clarke pack for her beach trip with Octavia. She claims she doesn’t want to go, but he thinks she’s secretly excited about it. She’ll have fun, he knows that. And when she gets back, he’s going to show her just how much he missed her.

He isn’t impressed with the clothes she packs. Skimpy little dresses and crop tops, and three different bikinis, each more revealing than the next. But he doesn’t try to stop her, because she’s going to the beach, and that’s the kind of thing one wears to the beach.

“Stop looking at me like that,” Clarke pouts as she packs those tiny shorts that show off her ass.

“Like what?”

“All disapproving father.”

Bellamy snorts. “My disapproval has nothing to do with being _fatherly_ ,” he says wryly. He’s sitting on her bed next to her suitcase, being more judgemental that helpful.

“What’s it about then?” Clarks asks, as if she doesn’t know.

“It’s about you looking all sexy at the beach without me there to see. It’s about all the other men that are going to look at you and flirt with you.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Insanely.”

Clarke bites back a smile. “Don’t worry, daddy,” she says, leaning over to kiss him. “Nobody gets to touch me but you.”

She deepens the kiss, and Bellamy kisses her back. He reaches for her waist and pulls her onto his lap. Octavia isn’t due to pick Clarke up for another hour. They have time.

Clarke straddles him, her cunt pressed against the hard outline of his dick. She’s not wearing panties. Or a bra for that matter.

Bellamy pushes his hands up her top, then pulls it over her head. Her tits jiggle slightly as he frees them, and then they’re immediately in his palms, her nipples pebbling under his touch. He runs his tongue along the curve of her neck, then ravishes her with kisses from her shoulder to her nipple.

“I’m going to miss you so much,” Clarke says.

“It’s only a week,” Bellamy says, lifting his mouth just enough so he can talk. “And you’ve got your vibrator.”

“It’s not the same,” Clarke says sulkily. “And besides, you think the only thing I’ll miss is the sex?”

“What else are you gonna miss, baby?” he asks, lifting his head. He slides his hand between them to undo his jeans.

“Cuddling with you,” she says shyly. “Talking to you. Your company.”

He smiles, giving her a sweet, gentle kiss. She grins back at him, reaching her hands towards his crotch to release his cock. She presses her slit against the length of him, and he can feel how wet she is.

“What are _you_ going to miss?”

Easy question. “Everything,” he says. “Your smile, your laugh. Waking up next to you. Touching you. Your scent. Taking care of you. Listening to you talk about your favourite things. The way you draw little doodles on my skin with your fingertips. The way you sing to yourself when you paint. The way you get so passionate about the things you care about.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, but she’s blushing. “Okay, you big sap,” she says.

“And of course I’m _really_ going to miss fucking you.”

“So you better make this one good.”

He lets out a hiss as she lowers herself onto his cock. He jerks upwards and she gasps. She rolls her hips towards him, and he lets her do the lion’s share of the work. He keeps his hands on her, holding her steady, while she bounces on his cock.

As much as he loves teasing her, being in control, taking care of her and making her feel good—he loves her like this too. Desperate and greedy and selfish, taking what she wants from him. She kisses him hungrily, hands on his face, rocking in his lap, his cock inside her.

Her breathing grows shaky, her movements jerkier. She moans in frustration, unable to get herself there. She doesn’t quite have the stamina he does. He wraps his arm around her waist, and flips their positions in one fluid movement.

“You’re almost there, baby,” he grunts. He’s almost there himself. “You can do it, come for me sweetheart.”

“ _What the fuck?_ ” a voice that isn’t his, and isn’t Clarke’s, makes him falter. Clarke’s eyes fly open, and Bellamy whips his head towards the door, dread already heavy in his stomach. Octavia stands in the open doorway.

“Fuck,” he swears. “Shit.” Clarke gives an anguished cry.

“Get off her!” Octavia screams, charging towards them. Bellamy pulls out hastily, backing away, hurrying to shove his cock back into his pants. Clarke sits up, hugging her arms across her chest to hide her breasts. She looks on the verge of tears. Bellamy wants to go to her, comfort her, but his sister stands in the way.

“Octavia—” he starts.

“What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?” she yells, her face crimson with rage. Clarke lets out a sob, and both Blakes turn towards her. Octavia looks back to Bellamy, seething. “Get out,” she hisses. “I’ll deal with you in a minute.”

Bellamy nods, swallowing. He exits the room, Clarke’s eyes following him forlornly. He doesn’t want to leave her, but he doesn’t feel he has much of a choice right now.

He waits in the kitchen. He feels like he might throw up. How could he have been so careless? He imagines what Octavia and Clarke might be saying to each other right now.

_“Are you okay? Did he force you? Did he rape you?”_

_“No.”_

Whether Octavia believes that or not, it doesn’t make much of a difference. In her eyes, he knows he may as well have.

He imagines Clarke crying, begging Octavia not to tell, trying to convince her aunt they’re in love. He thinks Octavia could believe Clarke loves him. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever convince her that he really loves Clarke.

Octavia eventually joins him in the kitchen. She’s never looked at him with such disgust before.

“Is she okay?” Bellamy asks hoarsely. That’s the only thing that matters right now.

Octavia scoffs. “ _Now_ you care about that? What the fuck—what—I don’t even know where to start. How could you? I can’t even look at you. You sicken me.”

“O, it’s not what you think. I love her. I’m in love with her.”

“Don’t. Do not start with that bullshit. You’re in love with her? _She’s your seventeen-year-old daughter_. You know better. God, you took that little girl’s trust and devotion and turned it into… _this_. You fucking betrayed her.”

“Please, Octavia,” Bellamy begs. “I never touched her without her permission.”

“You think that makes a difference? You shouldn’t have touched her at all. How is she ever going to have a normal, healthy relationship after this?”

Bellamy swallows. He hadn’t intended for Clarke to have any other relationships.

“Fuck,” Octavia swears. “How long has this been going on? How long have you been planning this? Since you took her in?”

Bellamy blanches. “Fuck, Octavia, of course not! You think I’m a fucking paedophile? That I fucking groomed her?”

“Why would I think any different? I just walked in on you _violating_ the girl you raised since she was _seven_.”

Bellamy clenches his jaw. He’s half guilt-ridden, self-loathing, knowing Octavia is right. The other half of him is defensive, angry, that his sister could think such things of him.

“Well, you spoke to Clarke, didn’t you?” he huffs. “She must have told you.”

“For all I know she’s just trying to protect you. She adores you. She doesn’t want anything bad to happen to you. She thinks she’s in love.”

Bellamy’s stomach swoops. “So what are you going to do?”

“She’s packing her things now.”

“Please don’t take her from me,” Bellamy begs. Premature grief bubbles up in his throat, and tears prick at his eyes. “Please, Octavia. I won’t touch her again. Just don’t take her. I can’t live without her.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you put your filthy hands on her.”

Bellamy shakes his head. Tears spill over now, and he rubs his eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

“I’m taking her on our holiday. I won’t turn you in yet, I guess. Fuck, I don’t know if I should. I have to think about it. But she sure as hell won’t be living with you again when we get back.”

Bellamy tries to swallow, but his throat is dry and swollen. “At least let me talk to her first? Say goodbye?”

Octavia looks at him, lips pursed, trying to decide if she can allow him that or not. Eventually she gives a short nod. “You can have five minutes.”

She comes upstairs with him, and waits outside the bedroom door. Her presence means he has to choose his words carefully. She’ll be listening.

Bellamy goes into Clarke’s room, where she most definitely isn’t packing. In fact, she’s removing everything she’d already put into the suitcase.

“Clarke,” he says, gently. He can’t call her anything else with Octavia listening.

“I’m not going,” Clarke says. “She can’t make me. I want to stay with you, I don’t want to go with her.” Her eyes are red from crying, her face tear-stained and blotchy.

“I know you don’t,” Bellamy says. “And I don’t want you to go. But Octavia won’t let you stay here. Not after what she saw.”

“She doesn’t understand,” Clarke says. “She thinks you’re just using me, taking advantage of me.”

“I know. And if you don’t go with her, it will be much worse. She’ll turn me in to the authorities. They might make you go back into foster care.”

Clarke sobs, fresh tears leaking from her eyes. “Will we still be able to see each other?”

Bellamy steps forward to brush the tears from her eyelashes. “I don’t think so,” he whispers. “I’m sorry. I don’t want it to be over either, but it is. It has to be.”

“But—”

“Clarke,” Bellamy groans. “Don’t fight me on this. If Octavia tells, I’ll lose everything. My job, my reputation.”

“I thought I was the only thing that mattered,” Clarke says angrily.

Bellamy looks pained. Of course she’s the only fucking thing that matters. He doesn’t care about his reputation at all, and he can find a new job.

But he’s trying to do the right thing here. End it. He never should have started it in the first place, but if he ends it now, maybe it’s not too late. Maybe she can move on and have some semblance of a normal love life after this. He has to make it final, so she doesn’t hold out hope that they can still be together. Because they can’t, no matter how much he wants it.

“We always knew this couldn’t last forever,” he says. “You’ll be better off without me.”

Clarke shoves him away. She’s angry, but he doesn’t miss the hurt, the utter betrayal in her eyes.

“Fine,” she snaps, her voice shaky. “Fine.” She starts throwing things back into the suitcase. “I guess I was nothing but a convenience to you after all.”

It physically pains him to hear her say that, to have her believe that. His heart aches, and he’s on the verge of crying again himself. His throat is thick with unsaid words, and he chokes them down, forces himself not to tell her how much he wants them to be together, to ask her to wait for him. He pushes away the urge to fold her into his arms and never let her go. Instead he steps towards the door.

“Love you, kid,” he chokes out. Whatever else, she deserves to know that.

He leaves the house for a while, until he can be sure Clarke and Octavia will be gone. They both hate him right now and he’ll only be in the way.

He doesn’t actually go anywhere, just drives around aimlessly for a couple of hours, changing the radio station every time any song that’s even remotely sad or romantic comes on. He ends up settling on a foreign language talkback station.

He comes home to an empty house, and is socked with a blow of heartache that steals the breath from his lungs. He gasps for air as it truly hits him that he’s lost her.

He hates himself for letting this happen. Not for getting caught—that part was just a by-product of his previous foolish decisions. But he never should have touched her in the first place. Should have never let himself even think of it. If he’d just listened to his better judgement, if he hadn’t been such a fucking idiot, not to mention a vile, disgusting, typical man, he’d still have Clarke here with him. As his daughter, as she should be.

He drags himself upstairs and stops in the doorway of her room. Then he curls up in her bed, sobbing, as he clutches her sheets and breathes in the scent of her.

-

Clarke doesn’t post anything on social media the week she’s away, but her friend Josie does, and tags Clarke in everything, even the photos she’s not in.

Josie’s feed is post after post of bikini photos—always with some young, fit guys around her. Bellamy’s stomach twists in excruciating jealousy every time he thinks about Clarke being surrounded by men who aren’t him. Has she kissed someone else? Touched them? Let them touch her? He has no way of knowing, since he’s not allowed to contact her, and he doubts she would reply anyway.

He has no right to be jealous, he knows that. They aren’t together, and they never should have been in the first place. But he tortures himself with visions of Clarke being fucked by hordes of other men, a new one every night, sometimes three or four at a time. All he wants to do is drag her home where he can protect her, where she’ll be safe from lustful eyes, and wandering hands. Well, except for his.

He wonders if even if Octavia had allowed Clarke to keep living with him, would he have been able to keep his promise to not touch her? He hadn’t before, and the stakes are the same. Nothing has changed. Why would he kid himself that he could be any stronger this time around?

No, she’s always been his weakness. Perhaps it’s not fair to put that on her, but no other woman has ever made him quite so stupid as she does. She’s had him wrapped around her finger since she was seven years old, and he’s sure he’ll continue to carry a torch for her long after she’s moved on from him.

When the week is over, Octavia comes around to pick up more of Clarke’s stuff. Clarke isn’t with her. Bellamy hangs around while Octavia packs up boxes. He doesn’t help, just hovers, while Octavia gives him the cold shoulder.

“How is she?” he finally asks, unable to hold it back any longer.

“She’s fine,” Octavia says shortly. For a minute it seems like that’s all he’s going to get, and he almost retreats to his bedroom to leave her to it. But then she sighs, her shoulders sagging. She finally looks at him. “She’s miserable,” she admits. “Without you.”

Bellamy nods. It doesn’t make him happy to hear it. He wants nothing more than for her to be okay. He licks his lips. “I feel the same.”

“I don’t care about _your_ feelings,” Octavia snorts. “I still think you’re a fucking disgusting predator who preyed on an innocent teenager.”

Bellamy nods again. He deserves that. “I know,” he says. “I know how it looks. How it seems. But I’ve never done anything but love that girl.”

Octavia studies him. “You haven’t asked if I’m going to tell.”

He shrugs. “Doesn’t matter. Nothing matters without her.”

“That’s not what you told her.”

“I said what I had to. She had to think it was just a fling or she’ll never move on. It will be easier for her this way.”

Octavia shakes her head. “No,” she says. “No, I don’t think that’s true at all.”

“You don’t?” he asks, surprised.

Octavia exhales dramatically. “Look, Bellamy. What you did was really fucked up. But I do believe you love her. You can’t let her think you don’t. It will hurt her more if she thinks it didn’t mean anything. And it meant something, didn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Bellamy says hoarsely. “Of course it did. It does.”

“I’m not going to turn you in. Clarke will live with me until she finishes school, okay? Then she’ll be eighteen and I can’t make her decisions for her anymore. I _hope_ that time apart will make her see how wrong this whole situation was.”

Bellamy swallows. “Will you let me see her?”

“You can have supervised visits.”

Bellamy nods, his heart speeding up. It’s more than he could have hoped for. It’s more than he deserves.

“I care about Clarke, Bellamy,” Octavia says. “That’s why I’m doing this. Maybe you’ve fucked her up beyond salvation, maybe she was already fucked up and that’s why she wants you. Either way—she deserves to know she was loved. _Is_ loved.”

Tears prick at his eyes. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Should I—should I help you bring her things over? Will she want to see me?”

Octavia rolls her eyes. “All she fucking wants is to see you. Come on, help me pack these boxes and then we can go.”

-

Bellamy doesn’t know what to expect from Clarke when he sees her. Octavia claims she wants to see him, but she’d been so angry the last time he saw her, he can’t imagine her forgiving him easily.

He follows Octavia into her apartment, carrying a box of Clarke’s bedding. He walks into the living room just as Clarke enters from the kitchen. They lock eyes from across the room. Butterflies fill Bellamy’s stomach, and Clarke’s eyes go wide.

He only has a split second to drop the box he’s holding before she’s leaping into his arms, burying her head into his shoulder. She breathes him in deeply, and Bellamy does the same. His heart feels like it might burst out of his chest.

“Hey, princess,” he laughs. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Clarke says, her voice muffled by her mouth on his shoulder. Octavia clears her throat from somewhere behind him. They both drop their arms, and Clarke takes half a step back, twisting her arms behind her back like she’s afraid she won’t be able to control herself if she leaves them hanging freely.

Octavia pushes past. “I’ll be in the kitchen,” she says pointedly. Bellamy waits for her to be out of sight before he looks back to Clarke.

“I thought you’d hate me,” he whispers.

Clarke shakes her head. “I was mad at first. But I know why you said what you said. You’ve never done anything that didn’t have my best interests at heart.”

He eyes her guiltily. “I don’t know if that’s strictly true.” She blushes, glances down at her feet. “I do love you, you know,” he says. “In more ways than one.”

“I know.”

He breathes a sigh of relief. He wishes he could kiss her.

“I just want you to be okay. To be happy.”

She smiles. “I know that too.” He smiles back. “We still get to see each other.”

“Supervised visits,” he agrees.

“It’s not enough,” Clarke whispers.

“It has to be.”

“And when I’m eighteen?”

He hesitates. He doesn’t want to promise anything. Not because he’s afraid he won’t be able to keep it—he knows he will—but because he doesn’t want her to feel beholden to him.

“Why don’t we see in a year, okay?”

Clarke nods. “I’ll wait for you.”

“I don’t want you to do that.”

“Yes, you do.”

He snorts. She sees right through him. Octavia walks back into the room. Bellamy doesn’t know how much she heard.

“Okay,” she announces. “Let’s get the rest of Clarke’s stuff inside, and then we can tell you all about our beach vacation, okay?”

Bellamy nods. He has hope. Hope that his sister won’t hate him forever. Hope that there’s a future for him and Clarke after all. Maybe it’s stupid, for him to hope. Maybe he’ll just end up being even more heartbroken in a year’s time, when Clarke has some dumb jock boyfriend whom she introduces him to as her dad.

Still, the cheeky glint in her eye when she rubs his foot with hers under the table over lunch is enough to make the possibility of heartbreak worth it.

-

**_(Approximately) One Year Later_ **

“How was your first day?”

Clarke drops her laptop and books on the coffee table, and sinks onto the couch next to Bellamy.

“If I say it was amazing are you going to gloat forever about how you were right all along?” she asks.

“Not forever, but there might be a small amount of gloating,” Bellamy grins.

“Okay, I guess I can handle that. It was amazing. I think I made friends already. We had lunch together,” she smiles. “And my psychology professor is really cool, she brought her dog to class.”

“Did you get a picture?”

Clarke pulls out her phone and shows him a picture of her professor holding a tiny little Pomeranian.

“Cute,” he smiles. “Any boys catch your attention? Or girls,” he amends quickly. She recently told him she thinks she might be bi, and he’s trying to show his support in every way possible.

“Shut up,” Clarke gives him a playful shove. “You know I only have eyes for you.”

“Suck up,” he says.

Clarke leans over and gives him a kiss, placating at first, but then it turns dirty. He moans against her mouth, and then he feels her smile at her victory. She pulls away, and he drags her into his lap, his arms circled tightly around her.

“I’m not asking out of jealousy,” he promises. “I just don’t want you to feel trapped by me. If you ever want out—I promise you’ll always have me. Even if your feelings for me change. If you want to be with someone your own age.”

“Bellamy,” she says seriously. “I love you. Your age doesn’t matter to me. As long as it doesn’t matter to you. As long as, you know—you’re not in a hurry to have kids or anything.”

His cock jumps at that—the thought of getting her pregnant. Marrying her first, of course. But he knows that’s years in the future. He can wait.

“Baby, we’ll do everything at your pace,” he promises.

“Okay,” she says. “Good. Because right now I want you to fuck me really, _really_ slow.”

“I can do that,” Bellamy agrees. He gives her a deep, drawn out kiss.

He’s glad she decided to go to college. She made the choice on her own, but as soon as she graduated, he promised he’d come with her, if she wanted him. Besides, their relationship wouldn’t exactly be looked upon with an open mind if they stayed in town.

He starts his new job next Monday, and he still gets to do what he loves—helping kids in bad situations. His sister is civil to him, which is all he can ask for.

And he has Clarke. The little girl who snuck into his life at seven-years-old, and changed his life forever. And she’s all he really needs.


End file.
